IBRARY 

IVERSITY  OF 
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Frontispiece 


'IS  IT  YES  OR  NO,  DARTHEA?' 


Page  552 
Hugh  Wpnne 


0»^  OCEANOGRAPHY 
UNIVFPglTY  cr  CALIFORNIA 

I  ^    i;  '.I  !  L    ."A.  It-^nh^i,^,     — 


Hugh  Wynne 


FREE  QUAKER 

Sometime   Brevet    Lieutenant-Colonel   on  the  Staff 
of    his    Excellency    General    Washington. 


By  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D.,  LL.D. 


With  Four  Illustrations 
By  HOWARD  PYLE 


A.  L.   BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


Copyright,  1896,  1897, 
The  Century  Co. 


Preface  to  Nineteenth  Edition 


SixcE  Hugh  Wynne  was  published  in  book  form  in 
1896,  it  has  been  many  times  reprinted,  and  noTV 
that  again  there  is  need  for  a  new  edition,  I  use  a 
desired  opportunity  to  rectify  some  mistakes  in 
names,  dates,  and  localities.  These  errors  were  of 
such  a  character  as  to  pass  unnoticed  by  the  ordi- 
nary reader  and  disturb  no  one  except  the  local 
archa?oIogist  or  those  who  propose  to  the  novelist 
that  he  shall  combine  the  accuracy  of  the  historical 
scholar  with  the  creative  imagination  of  the  writer 
of  what,  after  all,  is  fiction. 

Nevertheless,  the  desire  of  the  scientific  mind 
even  in  the  novel  is  for  all  reasonable  accuracv,  and 
to  attain  it  I  used  for  six  years  such  winter  leisures 
as  the  exacting  duties  of  a  busy  professional  life 
permitted,  to  collect  notes  of  the  dress,  hours, 
sports,  habits  and  talk  of  the  various  types  of  men 
and  women  I  meant  to  delineate.  I  burned  a  hun- 
dred pages  of  these  carefully  gathered  materials 
soon  after  I  had  found  time,  in  a  summer  holiday, 

vii 


viii  Preface 

to  write  the  book  for  which  these  notes  were  so 
industriously  gathered. 

It  is  probable  that  no  historical  novel  was  ever 
paid  the  compliment  of  the  close  criticism  of  details 
which  greeted  Hugh  Wynne.  I  was  most  largely  in 
debt  for  the  pointing  out  of  errors  in  names  and 
localities  to  a  review  of  my  book  in  a  journal  de- 
voted to  the  interest  of  one  of  the  two  divisions  of 
the  Society  of  Friends. 

I  deeply  regretted  at  the  time  that  my  useful 
critic  should  have  considered  my  novel  as  a  delib- 
erately planned  attack  on  the  views  entertained  by 
Friends.  It  was  once  again  an  example  of  the  as- 
sumption that  the  characters  of  a  novel  in  their 
opinions  and  talk  represent  the  author's  personal 
beliefs.  I  was  told  by  my  critic  that  John  AVynne 
is  presented  as  "the  type  of  the  typical  character 
of  the  Friends. ' '  As  well  might  Bishop  Proudie  be 
considered  as  representative  of  the  members  and 
views  of  the  Church  of  England  or  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn  of  the  English  la^vyer. 

A  man's  course  in  life  does  not  always  represent 
simple  obedience  to  the  counsels  of  perfection  im- 
plied in  an  accepted  creed  of  conduct,  but  is  modi- 
fied by  his  own  nature.  He  may  therefore  quite 
fail  to  secure  from  his  beliefs  that  which  they  pro- 
duce in  more   assimilative  natures.     Age  softens 


Preface  ix 

some  hard  characters,  but  in  John  Wynne  the  early 
development  of  senile  dementia  deprived  him  of 
this  chance.  I  drew  a  peculiar  and  happily  a  rare 
type  of  man  who  might  have  illustrated  failure  to 
get  the  best  out  of  any  creed. 

The  course  of  this  great  revolutionary  struggle 
made  or  marred  many  men,  and  the  way  in  which 
such  a  time  affects  character  affords  to  the  novel  of 
history  its  most  interesting  material. 

Erroneous  statements  in  regard  to  the  time  and 
place  of  Friends'  ^leetings  have  been  pointed  out. 
As  concerns  these  and  "the  like,  I  may  here  state 
that  the  manuscript  of  my  novel  was  read  with 
care  by  a  gentleman  who  was  a  birthright  member 
of  the  Society  and  both  by  age  and  knowledge  com- 
petent to  speak.  He  remarked  upon  some  of  my 
technical  errors  in  regard  to  the  meetings  and  dis- 
cipline of  Friends,  but  advised  against  change  and 
said  that  it  was  traditionally  well  known  that  at 
the  time  of  the  Revolution  there  was  much  confu- 
sion in  their  assemblies  and  great  bitterness  of  feel- 
ing when  so  many  like  Wetherill  chose  to  revolt 
against  the  doctrine  of  absolute  obedience  to  what, 
whether  rightfully  or  not,  they  regarded  as  oppres- 
sion. Needless  to  say  that  I  meant  no  more  than 
to  delineate  a  groat  spiritual  conflict  in  a  very  in- 
teresting body  of  men  who,  professing  neutrality. 


X  Preface 

were,  if  we  may  trust  AVashington,  anything  but 
neutral. 

The  amount  of  accuracy  to  be  allowed  in  historic 
fiction  aroused  fresh  interest  when  Hugh  Wynne 
first  appeared.  In  romances  like  Quentin  Durward 
and  Ivanhoe  the  question  need  not  be  considered. 
What  may  annoy  the  historian  in  the  more  serious 
novel  of  history  does  not  trouble  the  ordinary 
reader  nor  does  it  detract  from  the  interest  of  the 
story.  How  little  the  grossest  errors  in  biography 
and  history  affect  the  opinions  of  the  public  con- 
cerning a  novel  long  popular  may  be  illustrated  by 
the  fact  that  one  of  my  critics  referred  me  to  Henry 
Esmond  for  an  example  of  desirable  accuracy.  It 
was  an  unfortunate  choice,  for  in  Esmond  there  is 
hardly  a  correct  historical  statement.  The  Duke 
of  Hamilton  described  as  about  to  marry  Beatrix 
M^as  the  husband  of  a  second  living  wife  and  the 
father  of  seven  children — an  example  of  contem- 
plated literary  bigamy  which  does  not  distress  the 
happily  ignorant,  nor  are  they  at  all  troubled  by 
the  many  other  and  even  more  singular  errors  in 
statement,  some  of  them  plainly  the  result  of  care- 
lessness. A  novel,  it  seems,  may  sin  sadly  as  con- 
cerns historic  facts  and  yet  survive. 

The  purpose  of  the  novel  is,  after  all,  to  be  ac- 
*  ceptably  interesting.     If  it  be  historical,  the  his- 


Preface  xi 

toric  people  should  not  be  the  constantly  present 
heroes  of  the  book.  The  novelist's  proper  use  of 
them  is  to  influence  the  fates  of  lesser  people  and 
to  give  the  reader  such  sense  of  their  reality  as  in 
the  delineation  of  characters,  is  rarely  possible  for 
the  historian. 

"With  these  long  intended  comments,  I  leave  this 
book  to  the  many  readers  whose  wants  a  new  edi- 
tion is  meant  to  supply.  I  may  say  in  conclusion 
that  I  should  have  been  less  eager  to  alter,  correct, 
and  explain  if  it  were  not  that  in  schools  and  col- 
leges Hugh  Wynne  has  been  and  is  still  used  in  a 
variety  of  ways  so  that  the  example  of  accuracy 
and  a  definition  of  its  desirable  extent  in  historic 
fiction  becomes  in  some  sense  a  literary  duty. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

August,  1908. 


Hugh  Wynne 


INTRODUCTORY 

T  is  now  many  years  since  I  begran  these 
memoirs.  I  wrote  fnlly  a  third  of  them, 
and  then  pnt  them  aside,  having  found 
increasing  tliffieulties  as  I  went  on  with 
my  task.  These  ai'ose  out  of  the  con- 
stant need  to  use  the  first  person  in  a  naiTative  of 
adventure  and  incidents  which  chiefly  concern  the 
writer,  even  though  it  involve  also  the  fortunes  of 
many  in  all  ranks  of  life.  Having  no  gift  in  the 
way  of  composition,  I  knew  not  how  to  supply  or 
set  forth  what  was  outside  of  my  own  knowledge, 
nor  how  to  pretend  to  that  marvellous  insight,  as  to 
motives  and  thoughts,  which  they  affect  who  write 
books  of  fiction.  This  has  always  seemed  to  me 
absurd,  and  so  artificial  that,  with  my  fashion  of 
mind,  I  have  never  been  able  to  enjoy  such  works  nor 
dgreeably  to  accept  their  claim  to  such  privilege  of 

1 


2  Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

insight.  In  a  memoir  meant  for  my  descendants,  it 
was  fitting  and  desirable  that  I  should  at  times  speak 
of  my  own  appearance,  and,  if  possible,  of  how  I  seemed 
as  child  or  man  to  others.  This,  I  found,  I  did  not 
inchne  to  do,  even  when  I  myself  knew  what  had 
been  thought  of  me  by  friend  or  foe.  And  so,  as  I 
said,  I  set  the  task  aside,  with  no  desire  to  take  it 
up  again. 

Some  years  later  my  friend,  John  Warder,  died, 
leaving  to  my  son,  his  namesake,  an  ample  estate, 
and  to  me  all  his  books,  papers,  plate,  and  wines. 
Locked  in  a  desk,  I  found  a  diary,  begun  when  a  lad, 
and  kept,  with  more  or  less  care,  during  several  years 
of  the  great  war.  It  contained  also  recollections  of 
our  youthful  days,  and  was  very  full  here  and  there 
of  thoughts,  comments,  and  descriptions  concerning 
events  of  the  time,  and  of  people  whom  we  both 
had  known.  It  told  of  me  much  that  I  could  not 
otherwise  have  willingly  set  down,  even  if  the  mat- 
ter had  appeared  to  me  as  it  did  to  him,  which  was 
not  always  the  case ;  also  my  friend  chanced  to  have 
been  present  at  scenes  which  deeply  concerned  me, 
but  which,  without  his  careful  setting  forth,  would 
never  have  come  to  my  knowledge. 

A  kindly  notice,  writ  nine  years  before,  bade  me 
use  his  jom*nal  as  seemed  best  to  me.  When  I  read 
this,  and  came  to  see  how  fuU  and  clear  were  his 
statements  of  much  that  I  knew,  and  of  some  things 
which  I  did  not,  I  felt  ripely  inchned  to  take  up 
again  the  story  I  had  left  unfinished ;  and  now  I 
have  done  so,  and  have  used  my  friend  as  the  third 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker  3 

person,  whom  I  coiild  permit  to  say  what  he  thought 
of  me  from  time  to  time,  and  to  tell  of  incidents  I 
did  not  see,  or  record  impressions  and  emotions  of 
his  own.  This  latter  privilege  pleases  me  because  I 
shiill,  besides  mv  own  storv,  be  able  to  let  those  dear 
to  me  gather  from  the  confessions  of  his  journal,  and 
from  my  own  statements,  what  manner  of  person 
was  the  true  gentleman  and  gallant  soldier  to  whom 
I  owed  so  much. 

I  ti'ust  this  tale  of  an  arduous  struggle  by  a  new 
land  against  a  gi'eat  empire  will  make  those  of  my 
own  blood  the  more  desirous  to  serve  their  coun- 
ti'y  with  honour  and  earnestness,  and  with  an  abiding 
telief  in  the  great  Ruler  of  events. 

In  my  title  of  this  volume  I  have  called  myself  a 
"  Free  Quaker."  The  term  has  no  meaning  for  most 
of  the  younger  generation,  and  yet  it  should  tell  a 
storj'  of  many  sad  spiritual  straggles,  of  much  heart- 
searching  distress,  of  brave  decisions,  and  of  battle 
and  of  camp. 

At  Fifth  and  Arch  streets,  on  an  old  gable,  is  this 

record : 

By  General  StTBscRiPTioN, 

For  the  Free  Quakers. 

Erected  a.  d.  1783, 

Op  the  Empire,  8. 

Tn  the  buiying- ground  across  the  street,  and  in 
and  about  the  sacred  walls  of  Christ  Church,  not  fju- 
away,  lie  Benjamin  Franklin,  Francis  Hopkinson, 
Peyton  Raudolpli,  Benjamin  Rush,  and  many  a  gal- 
lant soldier  and   sailor   of   the  war  for  freedom. 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


Among  them,  at  peace  forever,  rest  the  gentle-folks 
who  stood  for  the  king— the  gay  men  and  women  who 
were  neutral,  or  who  cared  little  under  which  George 
they  danced  or  gambled  or  di-ank  their  old  Madeira. 
It  is  a  neighbom-hood  which  should  be  forever  full  of 
interest  to  those  who  love  the  country  of  our  bu-th. 


CHILD'S  early  life  is  sneh  as  those  who 
rule  over  hiiu  make  it ;  but  they  can  only 
nuxlify  what  he  is.  Yet,  as  all  know, 
after  their  influence  has  ceased,  the  man 
himself  has  to  deal  with  the  effects  of 
1)l(>.tcl  ami  breed,  and,  too,  with  the  consequences  of 
the  mistakes  of  his  elders  in  the  way  of  education. 
For  these  reasons  I  am  pleased  to  say  something  of 
myself  in  the  season  of  my  green  youth. 

The  story  of  the  childhood  of  the  gi'eat  is  often  of 
value,  no  matter  from  whom  they  are  "ascended," 
as  mv  friend  Warder  used  to  sav ;  but  even  in  the 
lives  of  such  lesser  men  as  I,  who  have  played  the 
part  of  .simple  pawns  in  a  mighty  game,  the  change 
from  childhood  to  nuinhood  is  not  without  interest. 
I  have  oft<?n  wished  we  could  have  the  recorded 
truth  of  a  child's  life  as  it  seemed  to  him  daj'  by  day, 
but  this  can  never  be.  The  man  it  is  who  writes  the 
life  of  the  boy,  and  his  recollection  of  it  is  peq)lexed 
))y  the  siftings  of  memorj-,  which  let  so  much  of 
thought  and  feeling  escape,  keeping  little  more  than 
l)arren  facts,  or  the  remembrance  of  periods  of  trou- 
ble or  of  emotion,  sometimes  quite  valueless,  while 
more  important  moral  events  are  altogether  lost. 

5 


6  Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

As  these  pages  will  show,  I  have  found  it  agree- 
able, and  at  times  nseful,  to  try  to  understand,  as 
far  as  in  me  lay,  not  only  the  men  who  were  my  cap- 
tains or  mates  in  war  or  in  peace,  but  also  myself.  I 
have  often  been  puzzled  by  that  well-worn  phrase 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  knowing  thj^self ,  for  with  what 
manner  of  knowledge  you  know  yoiu'self  is  a  grave 
question,  and  it  is  sometimes  more  valuable  to  know 
what  is  truly  thought  of  you  by  your  nearest  friends 
than  to  be  forever  teasing  yourself  to  determine 
whether  what  you  have  done  in  the  course  of  your 
life  was  just  what  it  should  have  been. 

I  may  be  wrong  in  the  belief  that  my  friend  War- 
der saw  others  more  clearly  than  he  saw  himself. 
He  was  of  that  opinion,  and  he  says  in  one  place  that 
he  is  like  a  mirror,  seeing  all  things  sharply  except 
that  he  saw  not  himself.  Whether  he  judged  me 
justly  or  not,  I  must  leave  to  others  to  decide.  I 
should  be  glad  to  think  that,  in  the  great  account,  I 
shall  be  as  kindly  dealt  with  as  in  the  worn  and 
faded  pages  which  tell  brokenly  of  the  days  of  our 
youth.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  my  eyes  have 
filled  many  times  as  I  have  lingered  over  these 
records  of  my  friend,  surely  as  sweet  and  true  a 
gentleman  as  I  have  ever  known.  Perhaps  some- 
times they  have  even  overflowed  at  what  they 
read.  Why  are  we  reluctant  to  confess  a  not  ignoble 
weakness,  such  as  is,  after  all,  only  the  heart's  con- 
fession of  what  is  best  in  life  ?  What  becomes  of 
the  tears  of  age? 

This  is  but  a  wearisome  introduction,  and  yet 


Hu^rh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


necessary,  for  I  desii-e  to  use  fi-eely  my  friend's  jour- 
nal, and  tbk  without  perpetual  nieution  of  his  name, 
save  as  one  of  the  actors  wlio  played,  as  I  did,  a 
modest  part  in  the  tumult  of  the  war,  in  which  my 
own  fortunes  and  his  were  so  deeply  concerned.  To 
tell  of  my  own  life  without  speaking  freely  of  the 
com-se  of  a  mighty  story  would  be  quite  impossible. 
I  look  back,  indeed,  with  honest  comfort  on  a  strug- 
gle which  changed  the  history  of  three  nations,  but 
I  am  sure  that  the  war  did  more  for  me  than  I  for 
it.  This  I  saw  in  othei*s.  Some  who  went  into  it 
unfonned  lads  came  out  strong  men.  In  others  its 
temptations  seemed  to  find  and  foster  weaknesses  of 
character,  and  to  cultivate  the  liidden  germs  of  evil. 
Of  all  the  examples  of  this  influence,  none  has  seemed 
to  me  so  tragical  as  that  of  General  Arnold,  because, 
being  of  reputalile  stock  and  sufficient  means,  gen- 
erous, in  every-day  life  kindly,  and  a  free-handed 
friend,  he  was  also,  as  men  are  now  loath  to  believe, 
a  most  gallant  and  daring  soldier,  a  tender  father, 
and  an  attached  husband.  The  thought  of  the  fall 
of  this  man  fetches  back  to  me,  as  I  write,  the  re- 
membrance of  my  own  lesser  temptations,  and  with 
a  thankful  lieart  I  turn  aside  to  the  uneventful  story 
of  my  boyhood  and  its  surroundings, 

I  was  born  in  the  great  city  Governor  William 
Penn  founded,  in  Pennsylvania,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Delaware,  and  my  earliest  memories  are  of  the  broad 
river,  the  sliips,  the  creek  before  our  door,  and  of 
grave  gentlemen  in  straight-collared  coats  and  broad- 
brimmed  beaver  hats. 


8  Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

I  began  life  in  a  day  of  stern  rule,  and  among  a 
people  who  did  not  concern  themselves  greatly  as  to 
a  child's  having  that  inheritance  of  happiness  with 
which  we  like  to  credit  childhood.  Who  my  people 
were  had  much  to  do  with  my  own  character,  and 
what  those  people  were  and  had  been  it  is  needful  to 
say  before  I  let  my  story  run  its  natural  and,  I  hope, 
not  uninteresting  course. 

In  my  father's  bedroom,  over  the  fireplace,  hung  a 
pretty  picture  done  in  oils,  by  whom  I  know  not.  It 
is  now  in  my  library.  It  represents  a  pleasant  park, 
and  on  a  rise  of  land  a  gray  Jacobean  house,  with, 
at  either  side,  low  wings  curved  forward,  so  as  to 
embrace  a  courtyard  shut  in  by  raihngs  and  gilded 
gates.  There  is  also  a  terrace  wath  urns  and  flowers. 
I  used  to  think  it  was  the  king's  palace,  until,  one 
morning,  when  I  was  still  a  child,  Friend  Pember- 
ton  came  to  visit  my  father  with  William  Logan  and 
a  very  gay  gentleman,  Mr.  John  Penn,  he  who  was 
sometime  lieutenant-governor  of  the  pro\dnce,  and  of 
whom  and  of  his  brother  Richard  great  hopes  were 
conceived  among  Friends.  I  was  encouraged  by 
Mr.  Penn  to  speak  more  than  was  thought  fitting 
for  children  in  those  days,  and  because  of  his  rank 
I  escaped  the  reproof  I  should  else  have  met  with. 

He  said  to  my  father, "  The  boy  favours  thy  people." 
Then  he  added,  patting  my  head,  "When  thou  art 
a  man,  my  lad,  thou  shouldst  go  and  see  where  thy 
people  came  from  in  Wales.  I  have  been  at  Wyn- 
cote.  It  is  a  great  house,  with  wings  in  the  Italian 
manner,  and  a  fine  fountain  in  the  court,  and  gates 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker  9 

which  were  gilded  when  Chai'les  II.  came  to  see  the 
squire,  and  which  are  not  to  be  set  open  again  until 
another  king  comes  thither." 

Then  I  knew  this  was  the  picture  upstairs,  and 
much  pleased  I  said  eagerly: 

"  My  father  has  it  in  his  bedroom,  and  oiu-  ai*ms 
below  it,  all  painted  most  beautiful." 

"  Thou  art  a  clever  lad,"  said  the  young  lieutenant- 
governor,  "  and  I  must  have  described  it  well.  Let 
us  have  a  look  at  it.  Friend  Wynne." 

But  my  mother,  seeing  that  William  Logan  and 
Friend  Pemberton  were  silent  and  grave,  and  that  my 
father  looked  ill  pleased,  made  haste  to  make  ex- 
cuse, because  it  was  springtime  and  the  annual  house- 
cleaning  was  going  on. 

Mr.  Penn  cried  out  merrily,  "  I  see  that  the  elders 
are  shocked  at  thee.  Friend  Wynne,  because  of  these 
vanities  of  arms  and  pictures;  but  there  is  good 
heraldry  on  the  tankard  out  of  which  I  drank  James 
Pemberton's  beer  yesterday.  Fie,  fie.  Friend  James  ! " 
Then  he  bowed  to  my  mother  very  courteously,  and 
said  to  my  father,  "  I  hope  I  have  not  got  thy  boy 
into  difficulties  because  I  reminded  him  that  he  is 
come  of  gentles." 

"  Xo,  no,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  the  arms,  madam,  and  well  too :  quar- 
terly, three  eagles  displayed  in  fesse,  and—" 

"Thou  wilt  pardon  me.  Friend  Penn,"  said  my 
father,  curtly.  "  These  are  the  follies  of  a  world  which 
concerns  not  thos<;  of  our  sociwty.  The  lad's  aunt  has 
put  enough  of  such  nonsense  into  his  head  already." 


lo        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"Let  it  pass,  then,"  returned  the  young  lieutenant- 
governor,  with  good  humour ;  "  but  I  hope,  as  I  said, 
that  I  have  made  no  trouble  for  this  stout  boy  of 
thine." 

My  father  replied  deliberately,  "  There  is  no  harm 
done."  He  was  too  proud  to  defend  himself,  but  I 
heard  long  after  that  he  was  taken  to  task  by  Thomas 
Scattergood  and  another  for  these  vanities  of  arms 
and  pictures.  He  told  them  that  he  put  the  picture 
where  none  saw  it  but  ourselves,  and,  when  they  per- 
sisted, reminded  them  sharply,  as  Mr.  Penn  had  done, 
of  the  crests  on  their  own  silver,  by  wliich  these 
Friends  of  Welsh  descent  set  much  store. 

I  remember  that,  when  the  gay  young  lieutenant- 
governor  had  taken  his  leave,  my  father  said  to  my 
mother,  "  Was  it  thou  who  didst  tell  the  boy  this  fool- 
ishness of  these  being  our  arms  and  the  like,  or  was 
it  my  sister  Gainor?" 

Upon  this  my  mother  drew  up  her  brows,  and 
spread  her  palms  out,— a  French  way  she  had,— and 
cried,  "Are  they  not  thy  arms?  "WTierefore  should 
we  be  ashamed  to  confess  it?" 

I  suppose  this  puzzled  him,  for  he  merely  added, 
"  Too  much  may  be  made  of  such  vanities." 

All  of  this  I  but  dimly  recall.  It  is  one  of  the 
earliest  recollections  of  my  childhood,  and,  being  out 
of  the  common,  was,  I  suppose,  for  that  reason  better 
remembered. 

I  do  not  know  how  old  I  was  when,  at  this  time, 
Mr.  Penn,  in  a  neat  wig  with  side  rolls,  and  dressed 
very  gaudy,  aroused  my  curiosity  as  to  these  folks  in 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         ii 

Wiiles.  It  was  lon^  after,  and  only  l\v  dein-ees,  that 
I  learned  the  following  facts,  wliieli  were  in  time  to 
have  a  gi-eat  influence  on  ray  own  life  and  its  varied 
fortunes. 

In  or  about  the  vcar  1G71,  and  of  course  before 
Mr.  Penn,  the  propriet;ny,canie  over,  my  grandfather 
had  crossed  the  sea,  and  settled  near  Chester  on 
lands  belonging  to  the  Swedes.  The  reason  of  his 
coming  was  this:  about  16G9  the  Welsh  of  the  Eng- 
lish church  and  the  magistrates  were  greatly  stin*ed 
to  ^\Tath  against  the  people  called  Quakers,  because 
of  their  refusal  to  pay  tithes.  Among  these  offen- 
ders was  no  ?mall  numlier  of  the  lesser  gentry,  espe- 
cially they  of  ^Merionethshire. 

My  gi-andfather,  Hugh  Wynne,  was  the  son  and 
successor  of  Godfrey  Wynne,  of  Wyncote.  How 
he  chanced  to  be  born  among  these  hot-blooded 
WjTines  I  do  not  comprehend.  He  is  said  to  have 
been  gay  in  his  earlj'  days,  but  in  young  manhood  to 
have  become  averse  to  the  wild  ways  of  his  breed, 
and  to  have  taken  a  serious  and  contemplative  turn. 
Falling  in  with  preachei*s  of  the  people  called  Qua- 
kei*s,  he  left  the  church  of  the  estiiblishment,  gave  up 
hunting,  ate  his  game-cocks,  and  took  to  straight  col- 
lars, plain  clothes,  and  plain  talk.  When  he  refused 
to  pay  the  tithes  he  was  fined,  and  at  last  cast  into 
prison  in  Shrewsbury  Gat«  House,  where  lie  lay  for 
a  year,  with  no  more  mind  to  be  taxed  for  a  hire- 
ling ministry'  at  the  end  of  that  time  than  at  the 
beginning. 

His  next  brother,  William,  a  churchman  as  men 


I  2         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

go,  seems  to  have  loved  him,  although  he  was  him- 
self a  roUicking  fox-hunter ;  and,  seeing  that  Hugh 
would  die  if  left  in  this  duress,  engaged  him  to  go  to 
America.  Upon  his  agreeing  to  make  over  his  estate 
to  William,  those  in  authority  readily  consented  to 
his  liberation,  since  William  had  no  scruples  as  to 
the  matter  of  tithes,  and  with  him  there  would  be  no 
further  trouble.  Thus  it  came  about  that  my  grand- 
father Hugh  left  Wales.  He  had  with  him,  I  pre- 
sume, enough  of  means  to  enable  him  to  make  a 
start  in  Pennsylvania.  It  could  not  have  been  much. 
He  carried  also,  what  no  doubt  he  valued,  a  certifi- 
cate of  removal  from  the  Quarterly  Meeting  held  at 
Tyddyn  y  Garreg.  I  have  this  singular  document. 
In  it  is  said  of  him  and  of  his  wife,  Ellin  ("for 
whom  it  may  concern  "j,  that  "they  are  faithfuR  and 
beloved  Friends,  well  known  to  be  serviceable  unto 
Friends  and  brethren,  since  they  have  become  con- 
vinced; of  a  blameless  and  savory  conversation. 
Also  are  P'sons  Dearly  beloved  of  all  Souls.  His 
testimony  sweet  and  tender,  reaching  to  the  quicking 
seed  of  life ;  we  cannot  alsoe  but  bemoan  the  want 
of  his  company,  for  that  in  difficult  occasion  he  was 
sted-f  ast— nor  was  one  to  be  turned  aside.  He  is  now 
seasonable  in  intention  for  the  Plantations,  in  order 
into  finding  his  way  clear,  and  freedom  in  the  truth 
according  to  the  measure  manifested  unto  him,"  etc. 
And  so  the  strong-minded  man  is  commended  to 
Friends  across  the  seas.  In  the  records  of  the  meet- 
ings for  sufferings  in  England  are  certain  of  his  let- 
ters from  the  jail.     How  his  character  descended  to 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         13 

my  sterner  parent,  and,  through  another  generation, 
to  me,  and  how  the  oonung  in  of  my  mothers  gen- 
tler blood  helped  in  afttT-days,  ami  amid  stir  of 
war,  to  modify  in  me,  this  present  writer,  the  ruder 
qualities  of  my  race,  I  may  hope  to  set  forth. 

William  died  suddenly  in  1(379  without  children, 
and  was  succeeded  by  the  third  brother,  Owen.  This 
gentleman  lived  the  life  of  his  time,  and,  dj-ing  in 
1700  of  much  beer  and  many  strong  waters,  left  one 
son,  Owen,  a  minor.  What  with  executors  and  other 
evils,  the  estate  now  went  from  ill  to  worse.  Owen 
Wvnne  2d  was  in  no  haste,  and  thus  married  Jis  late  as 
somewhere  about  1740,  and  had  issue,  William,  and 
later,  in  1744,  a  second  sou,  Ai-thur,  and  perhaps 
othei-s ;  but  of  all  this  I  heard  naught  until  many 
yeai-s  after,  as  I  have  already  said. 

It  mav  seem  a  weak  and  careless  thing  for  a  man 
thus  to  cast  away  his  father's  lauds  as  my  ancestor 
did;  but  what  he  gave  up  was  a  poor  estate,  embar- 
rassed with  mortgages  and  lessened  by  fines,  until 
the  income  was,  I  suspect,  but  small.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  freedom  to  worship  God  as  he  pleased  was 
more  to  him  than  wealth,  and  assuredly  not  to  be 
set  against  a  so  meagre  estate,  where  he  must  have 
lived  among  enmities,  or  must  have  diced,  drunk,  and 
hunted  with  the  rest  of  his  kinsmen  and  neiglibours. 

I  have  a  faint  memory  of  my  aunt,  Gainor  Wynne, 
as  being  fond  of  discussing  the  matter,  and  of  how 
angry  this  used  to  make  my  father.  She  had  a 
notion  that  my  father  knew  more  than  he  was  will- 
ing to  say,  and  that  there  had  been  something  further 


14         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

agreed  between  the  brothers,  although  what  this  was 
she  knew  not,  nor  ever  did  for  many  a  day.  She  was 
given,  however,  to  filling  my  young  fancy  with  tales 
about  the  greatness  of  these  Wynnes,  and  of  how  the 
old  homestead,  rebuilded  in  James  I.'s  reign,  had 
been  the  nest  of  Wynnes  past  the  memory  of  man. 
Be  all  this  as  it  may,  we  had  lost  Wyncote  for  the 
love  of  a  freer  air,  although  all  this  did  not  much 
concern  me  in  the  days  of  which  I  nov/  write. 

Under  the  mild  and  just  rule  of  the  proprietary, 
my  grandfather  Hugh  prospered,  and  in  turn  his  son 
John,  my  father,  to  a  far  greater  extent.  Their  old 
home  in  Wales  became  to  them,  as  time  went  on,  less 
and  less  important.  Their  acres  here  in  Merion  and 
Bucks  were  more  numerous  and  more  fertile.  I  may 
add  that  the  possession  of  many  slaves  in  Maryland, 
and  a  few  in  Pennsylvania,  gave  them  the  feeling  of 
authority  and  position,  which  the  colonial  was  apt  to 
lose  in  the  presence  of  his  English  rulers,  who,  being 
in  those  days  principally  gentlemen  of  the  army, 
were  given  to  assuming  airs  of  superiority. 

In  a  word,  my  grandfather,  a  man  of  excellent  wits 
and  of  much  importance,  was  of  the  council  of  Wil- 
liam Penn,  and,  as  one  of  his  chosen  advisers,  much 
engaged  in  his  difficulties  with  the  Lord  Baltimore 
as  to  the  boundaries  of  the  lands  held  of  the  crown. 
Finally,  when,  as  Penn  says,  "I  could  not  prevail 
with  my  wife  to  stay,  and  still  less  Avith  Tishe," 
which  was  short  for  L^titia,  his  daughter,  an  ob- 
stinate wench,  it  was  to  men  like  Logan  and 
my  grandfather  that  he  gave  his  full  confidence 


Hugh  W'^ynne  :  Free  Quaker         15 

and  delegrated  his  authority ;  so  that  Hugh  W^^lne 
had  become,  long:  before  his  death,  a  person  of  so 
much  greater  condition  than  the  small  squires  to 
whom  he  had  given  up  his  estate,  that  he  ■was 
like  Joseph  in  this  new  land.  What  with  the  indif- 
ference come  of  large  means,  and  disgust  for  a 
country  where  he  had  been  ill  treated,  he  probably 
ceased  to  think  of  his  forefathers'  life  in  Wales  as 
of  a  thing  either  desirable  or  in  any  way  suited  to 
his  own  creed. 

Soon  the  letters,  which  at  fii'st  were  frequent,  that 
is,  coming  twice  a  year,  when  the  London  packet 
arrived  or  departed,  became  rare ;  and  if,  on  the 
death  of  my  great-uncle  William,  they  ceased,  or  if 
any  passed  later  between  us  and  the  next  holder 
of  Wyncote,  I  never  knew.  The  Welsh  squires  had 
our  homestead,  and  we  our  better  portion  of  wealth 
and  freedom  in  this  new  land.  And  so  ended  my 
knowledge  of  this  matter  for  many  a  year. 

You  will  readily  understand  that  the  rude  life 
of  a  fox-hunting  squire  or  the  position  of  a  strict 
Quaker  on  a  but  moderate  estate  in  Merionethshire 
would  have  had  little  to  tempt  my  father.  Yet  one 
thing  remained  with  him  awhile  as  an  unchanged 
inheritance,  to  wliich,  so  far  as  I  remember,  he  only 
once  alluded.  Indeed,  I  should  never  have  guessed 
that  he  gave  the  matter  a  thought  but  for  that  visit 
of  ]\Ir.  John  Penn,  and  the  way  it  recurred  to  me  in 
later  days  in  connection  with  an  incident  concerning 
the  picture  and  the  blazoned  arms. 

I  think  he  cared  less  and  less  as  years  went  by.     Tn 


1 6        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


earlier  days  he  may  still  have  liked  to  remember 
that  he  might  have  been  Wynne  of  Wyncote ;  but 
this  is  a  mere  guess  on  my  part.  Pride  spiritual  is 
a  master  passion,  and  certain  it  is  that  the  creed  and 
ways  of  Fox  and  Penn  became  to  him,  as  years  cre- 
ated habits,  of  an  importance  far  beyond  the  pride 
which  values  ancient  blood  or  a  stainless  shield. 

The  old  house,  which  was  built  much  in  the  same 
fashion  as  the  great  mansion  of  my  Lord  Dysart  on 
the  Thames  near  to  Richmond,  but  smaller,  was,  after 
all,  his  family  home.  The  picture  and  the  arms  were 
hid  away  in  deference  to  opinions  by  which  in  gen- 
eral he  more  and  more  sternly  abided.  Once,  when 
I  was  older,  I  went  into  his  bedroom,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  him  standing  before  the  hearth,  his 
hands  crossed  behind  his  back,  looking  earnestly  at 
the  brightly  coloured  shield  beneath  the  picture  of 
Wyncote.  I  knew  too  well  to  disturb  him  in  these 
silent  moods,  but  hearing  my  steps,  he  suddenly 
called  me  to  him.  I  obeyed  with  the  dread  his  stern- 
ness always  caused  me.  To  my  astonishment,  his 
face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  were  moist.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  clutched  it  hard  as  he 
spoke.  He  did  not  turn,  but,  still  looking  up  at  the 
arms,  said,  in  a  voice  which  paused  between  the  words 
and  sounded  strange : 

"  I  have  been  insulted  to-day,  Hugh,  by  the  man 
Thomas  Bradford.  I  thank  God  that  the  Spirit  pre- 
vailed with  me  to  answer  him  in  Christian  meekness. 
He  came  near  to  worse  things  than  harsh  words. 
Be  warned,  my  son.    It  is  a  terrible  set-back  from 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         17 

right  li\'ing  to  come  of  a  hot-blooded  breed  like 
these  Wynnes." 

I  looked  up  at  him  as  he  spoke.  He  was  smiling. 
**But  not  all  bad,  Hugh,  not  JiU  bad.  Remember 
that  it  is  something,  in  tliis  nest  of  disloyal  traders, 
to  have  eome  of  gentle  blood." 

Then  he  left  gazing  on  the  ai*ms  and  the  old  home 
of  our  people,  and  said  severely,  *'  Hast  thou  gotten 
thy  tasks  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  has  not  been  so  of  late.  I  hope  thou  hast  con- 
sidered  before  speaking.  If  I  hear  no  better  of  thee 
soon  thou  wilt  repent  it.  It  is  time  thou  should st 
take  thy  life  more  seriously.  What  I  have  said  is 
for  no  ear  b^it  thine." 

I  went  away  with  a  vague  feeling  that  I  had  suf- 
fered for  Mr.  Bradford,  and  on  account  of  my  father's 
refusal  to  join  in  resistance  to  the  Stamp  Act ;  for 
this  was  in  November,  17G5,  and  I  was  then  fully 
twelve  years  of  age. 

]\Iv  father's  confession,  and  all  he  had  said  follow- 
ing  it,  made  upon  me  one  of  those  lasting  imj)res- 
sions  which  are  rare  in  youth,  but  which  may  have  a 
great  influence  on  the  life  of  a  man.  Now  ail  the 
boys  were  against  the  Stamp  Act,  and  I  had  at  the 
moment  a  sudden  fear  at  being  opposed  to  my  father. 
I  had,  too,  a  feeling  of  personal  shame  because  this 
strong  man,  whom  I  dreaded  on  account  of  his  sever- 
ity, should  have  been  so  overwhelmed  by  an  insult. 
There  was  at  this  period,  and  later,  much  going  on 

in  my  outer  life  to  lessen  the  relentless  influence  of 
2 


I  8         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

the  creed  of  conduct  which  prevailed  in  our  home  for 
me,  and  for  all  of  our  house.  I  had  even  then  begun 
to  suspect  at  school  that  non-resistance  did  not  add 
permanently  to  the  comfort  of  life.  I  was  sorry  that 
my  father  had  not  resorted  to  stronger  measures 
with  Mr.  Bradford,  a  gentleman  whom,  in  after- 
years,  I  learned  greatly  to  respect. 

More  than  anything  else,  this  exceptional  experi- 
ence as  to  my  father  left  me  with  a  great  desire  to 
know  more  of  these  Wynnes,  and  with  a  certain  share 
of  that  pride  of  race,  which,  to  my  surprise,  as  I  think 
it  over  now,  was  at  that  time  in  my  father's  esteem 
a  possession  of  value.  I  am  bound  to  add  that  I  also 
felt  some  self-importance  at  being  intrusted  with 
this  secret,  for  such  indeed  it  was. 

Before  my  grandfather  left  Wales  he  had  married 
a  distant  cousin,  EUin  Owen,  and  on  her  death,  child- 
less, he  took  to  wife,  many  years  later,  her  younger  sis- 
ter, Gainor  ;i  for  these  Owens,  our  kinsmen,  had  also 
become  Friends,  and  had  followed  my  grandfathei*'s 
example  in  leaving  their  home  in  Merionethshire.  To 
this  second  marriage,  which  occurred  in  1713,  were 
born  my  aunt,  Gainor  Wynne,  and,  two  years  later, 
my  father,  John  Wynne.  I  have  no  remembrance 
of  either  grandparent.  Both  lie  in  the  ground  at 
Merion  Meeting-house,  under  nameless,  unmarked 
graves,  after  the  manner  of  Friends.     I  like  it  not. 

My  father,  being  a  stern  and  silent  man,  must 
needs  be  caught  by  his  very  opposite,  and,  accord- 

1  Thus  early  we  shed  the  English  prejudice  against  mar- 
riage with  a  deceased  wife's  sister. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        19 

iug  to  tliis  law  of  our  nature,  fell  iu  love  with  Marie 
Beauvais,  the  orphan  of  a  French  gentleman  who 
had  become  a  Quaker,  and  was  of  that  part  of  France 
called  the  Midi.  Of  this  marriage  I  was  the  only 
sur\'i\ing  offspring,  my  sister  Ellin  djing  when  I 
was  an  infant.  I  was  born  iu  the  city  of  Peuu,  on 
Januaxy  9,  1753,  at  9  P.  M. 


n 


HAVE  but  to  close  my  eyes  to  see  tlie 
house  in  which  I  lived  in  my  youth.  It 
stood  in  the  city  of  Penn,  back  from  the 
low  bluff  of  Dock  Creek,  near  to  "Walnut 
street.  The  garden  stretched  down  to 
the  water,  and  before  the  door  were  still  left  on  either 
side  two  gi'eat  hemlock-spruces,  which  must  have 
been  part  of  the  noble  woods  under  which  the  first 
settlers  found  shelter.  Behind  the  house  was  a  sepa- 
rate building,  long  and  low,  in  which  all  the  cook- 
ing was  done,  and  upstairs  were  the  rooms  where 
the  slaves  dwelt  apart. 

The  great  garden  stretched  westward  as  far  as 
Third  street,  and  was  full  of  fine  fruit-trees,  and  in 
the  autumn  of  melons,  first  brought  hither  in  one  of 
my  father's  ships.  Herbs  and  simples  were  not  want- 
ing, nor  berries,  for  all  good  housewives  in  those  days 
were  expected  to  be  able  to  treat  colds  and  the  lesser 
maladies  with  simples,  as  they  were  called,  and  to  pro- 
vide abundantly  jams  and  conserves  of  divers  kinds. 
There  were  many  flowers  too,  and  my  mother  loved 
to  make  a  home  here  for  the  wildings  she  found  in 
the  governor's  woods.  I  have  heard  her  regret  that 
the  most  delicious  of  all  the  growths  of  spring,  the 

9.n 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        21 

ground-sweet,  which  I  think  they  now  call  arbntus, 
would  not  prosper  out  of  its  forest  shelter. 

The  house  was  of  black  and  red  brick,  and  double  j 
that  is,  with  two  windows  on  each  side  of  a  wliite 
Doric  doorway,  having  something  portly  about  it.  I 
use  the  word  as  Dr.  Johnson  defines  it :  a  house  of 
port,  with  a  look  of  sufficiency,  and,  too,  of  ready 
hospitality,  which  was  due,  I  think,  to  the  upper 
half  of  the  door  being  open  a  good  part  of  the  year. 
I  recall  also  the  bidl's-ej-e  of  thick  glass  in  the  upper 
half-door,  and  below  it  a  great  brass  knocker.  In  the 
white  shutters  were  cut  crescentic  openings,  which 
looked  at  night  like  half -shut  eyes  when  there  were 
lights  within  the  rooms.  In  the  hall  were  hung  on 
pegs  leathern  buckets.  They  were  painted  green, 
and  bore,  in  yellow  letters,  '*  Fire  "  and  "  J.  W." 

The  day  I  went  to  school  for  the  fii-st  time  is  very 
clear  in  my  memory.  I  can  see  myself,  a  stout  little 
fellow  about  eight  years  old,  clad  in  gray  homespun, 
vrith  breeches,  low  shoes,  and  a  low,  tlat  beaver  hat. 
I  can  hear  my  mother  say,  "  Here  are  two  big  apples 
for  thy  master,"  it  being  the  custom  so  to  propitiate 
pedagogues.  Often  afterward  I  took  eggs  in  a  little 
basket,  or  flowers,  and  others  did  the  like. 

'•  Now  run  !  run  !  "  she  cried,  "  and  be  a  good  boy ; 
run,  or  thou  wilt  be  late."  And  she  clapped  her 
hands  as  I  sped  away,  now  and  then  looking  back 
over  my  shoulder. 

I  remember  as  well  my  return  home  to  this  solid 
house,  this  first  day  of  my  going  to  school.  One  is 
apt  to  associate  events  mih  persons,  and  my  mother 


2  2         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

stood  leaning  on  the  half-door  as  I  came  running 
back.  She  was  some  little  reassured  to  see  me  smil- 
ing, for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  been  mightily  scared 
at  my  new  venture. 

This  sweet  and  most  tender-hearted  lady  wore,  as 
you  may  like  to  know,  a  gray  gown,  and  a  blue  chintz 
apron  fastened  over  the  shoulders  with  wide  bands. 
On  her  head  was  a  very  broad-brimmed  white  beaver 
hat,  low  in  the  crown,  and  tied  by  silk  cords  under 
her  chin.  She  had  a  great  quantity  of  brown  hair, 
among  which  was  one  wide  strand  of  gray.  This 
she  had  from  youth,  I  have  been  told.  It  was  all 
very  silken,  and  so  curly  that  it  was  ever  in  rebellion 
against  the  custom  of  Friends,  which  would  have  had 
it  flat  on  the  temples.  Indeed,  I  never  saw  it  so,  for, 
whether  at  the  back  or  at  the  front,  it  was  wont  to 
escape  in  large  curls.  Nor  do  I  think  she  disliked 
this  worldly  wilfidness,  for  which  nature  had  pro- 
vided an  unanswerable  excuse.  She  had  serious  blue 
eyes,  very  large  and  wide  open,  so  that  the  clear  white 
was  seen  all  around  the  blue,  and  with  a  constant  look 
as  if  of  gentle  surprise.  In  middle  life  she  was 
still  pliant  and  well  rounded,  with  a  certain  compli- 
ment of  fresh  prettiness  in  whatever  gesture  she 
addressed  to  friend  or  guest.  Some  said  it  was  a 
French  v/ay,  and  indeed  she  made  more  use  of  her 
hands  in  speech  than  was  common  among  people  of 
British  race. 

Her  goodness  seems  to  me  to  have  been  instinc- 
tive, and  to  have  needed  neither  thought  nor  effort. 
Her  faults,  as  I  think  of  her,  were  mostly  such  as 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         23 

arise  from  excess  of  loving  and  of  noble  moods. 
She  would  be  lavish  where  she  had  better  have  been 
merely  generous,  or  rash  where  some  would  have 
lacked  even  the  commoner  qualities  of  courage.  In- 
deed, as  to  this,  she  feiu'ed  no  one— neither  my  grave 
father  nor  the  grimmest  of  inquisitive  committees  of 
Friends. 

As  I  came  she  set  those  large,  childlike  eyes  on  me, 
and  opening  the  lower  half -door,  cried  out : 

"  I  could  scarce  wait  for  thee  !  I  wish  I  could  have 
gone  with  thee,  Hugh ;  and  was  it  dreadful  ?  Come, 
let  us  see  thy  little  book.  And  did  they  praise  thy 
reading  ?  Didst  thou  tell  them  I  taught  thee  ?  There 
are  girls,  I  hear,"  and  so  on— a  way  she  had  of  ask- 
ing many  questions  without  waiting  for  a  reply. 

As  we  chatted  we  passed  through  the  hall,  where 
tall  mahogany  chaii-s  stood  dark  against  the  white- 
washed wjills,  such  as  were  in  all  the  rooms.  Joyous 
at  escape  from  school,  and  its  confinement  of  three 
long,  wearj'  hours,  from  eight  to  eleven,  I  dropped 
my  mother's  hand,  and,  running  a  little,  slid  down 
the  long  entrj'over  the  thinly  sanded  floor,  and  then 
slipping,  came  down  with  a  rueful  countenance,  as 
nature,  foreseeing  results,  meant  that  a  boy  sliould 
descend  when  his  legs  fail  liim.  IMy  mother  sat  doAni 
on  a  settl«%  and  s])r('ad  out  both  palms  toward  me, 
laughing,  and  cn.'ing  out : 

"So  near  are  joy  and  grief,  my  friends,  in  tliis 
wftrld  of  sorrow." 

This  was  said  so  exactly  with  the  voice  and  man- 
ner of  a  famous  preacher  of  our  Meeting  that  even 


24        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

I,  a  lad  then  of  only  eight  years,  recognised  the 
imitation.  Indeed,  she  was  wonderful  at  this  trick 
of  miniicr.y,  a  thing  most  odious  to  Friends.  As 
I  smiled,  hearing  her,  I  was  aware  of  my  father 
in  the  open  doorway  of  the  sitting-room,  tall,  strong, 
with  much  iron-gray  hair.  Within  I  saw  sevei-al 
Friends,  large  rosy  men  in  drab,  with  horn  buttons 
and  straight  collars,  their  stout  legs  clad  in  dark  silk 
hose,  without  the  paste  or  silver  buckles  then  in  use. 
All  wore  broad-brimmed,  low  beavers,  and  their 
gold-headed  canes  rested  between  their  knees. 

My  father  said  to  me,  in  his  sharp  way, "  Take  thy 
noise  out  into  the  orchard.  The  child  disturbs  us, 
wife.  Thou  shouldst  know  better,  A  committee  of 
overseers  is  with  me."  He  disliked  the  name  Marie, 
and  was  never  heard  to  use  it,  nor  even  its  English 
equivalent. 

Upon  this  the  dear  lady  murmured,  "Let  us  fly, 
Hugh,"  and  she  ran  on  tiptoe  along  the  hall  with 
me,  while  my  father  closed  the  door.  "  Come,"  she 
added,  "  and  see  the  floor.  I  am  proud  of  it.  We 
have  friends  to  eat  dinner  with  us  at  two." 

The  great  room  where  we  took  our  meals  is  stiU 
clear  in  my  mind.  The  floor  was  two  inches  deep  in 
white  sand,  in  which  were  carefully  traced  zigzag 
lines,  with  odd  patterns  in  the  corners.  A  bare 
table  of  well-rubbed  mahogany  stood  in  the  middle, 
with  a  thin  board  or  two  laid  on  the  sand,  that  the 
table  might  be  set  without  disturbing  the  patterns. 
In  the  corners  were  glass-covered  buffets,  full  of  sil- 
ver and  DeKt  ware ;  and  a  punch-bowl  of  Chelsea  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         25 

on  the  broad  window-ledge,  with  a  silver-mounted 
eocoauut  ladle. 

"  The  floor  is  pretty,"  she  said,  regarding  it  with 
pride,  "and  I  would  nuike  flowers  too,  but  that  thy 
father  tliinks  it  vain,  and  Friend  Pembertou  would 
set  his  bridge  spectacles  on  his  nose,  and  look  at  me, 
until  I  said  nauirhtv  words,  oh,  verv !  Come  out ;  I 
will  find  thee  some  ripe  damsons,  and  save  thee  cake 
for  thy  suj)per,  if  Friend  Warder  does  not  eat  it  all. 
He  is  a  httle  man,  and  eats  much.  A  soHcitous  man," 
and  she  became  of  a  sudden  the  pei-son  she  had  in 
mind,  looking  somehow  feeble  and  cautious  and  un- 
easy, Avith  arms  at  length,  and  the  pabns  turned 
forward,  so  that  I  knew  it  for  Joseph  Warder,  a  fre- 
quent caller,  of  whom  more  hereafter. 

"^^'hat  is  so— solicitous?"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  too  fearful  concerning  what  may  be  thought 
of  him.  Vanity,  vanity !  Come,  let  us  run  down  the 
garden.  Canst  thou  catch  me,  Hugh  ? "  And  with 
this  she  fled  away,  under  the  back  stoop  and  through 
the  trees,  light  and  active,  her  curls  tumbling  out, 
while  I  hurried  after  her,  mindful  of  damsons,  and 
wondering  how  much  cake  Frieud  Warder  would 
leave  for  my  comfort  at  evening. 

Dear,  ever  dear  lady,  seen  through  the  mist  of 
years !  None  was  hke  you,  and  none  as  dear,  save 
one  who  had  as  brave  a  soul,  but  far  other  ways  and 
charms. 

And  thus  began  my  life  at  school,  to  which  I  went 
hNnce  a  day,  my  father  not  approA-ing  of  the  plan  of 
three  sessions  a  day,  which  was  common,  nor,  for 


26         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

some  reason,  I  know  not  what,  of  schools  kept  by 
Friends.  So  it  was  that  I  set  out  before  eight,  and 
went  again  from  two  to  four.  My  master,  David 
Dove,  kept  his  school  in  Vidall's  Alley,  nigh  to 
Chestnut,  above  Second.  There  were  many  boys  and 
girls,  and  of  the  former  John  Warder,  and  Graydon, 
who  wrote  certain  memoirs  long  after.  His  mother, 
a  widow,  kept  boarders  in  the  great  Slate-roof  House 
near  by ;  for  in  those  days  this  was  a  common  re- 
som-ce  of  decayed  gentlewomen,  and  by  no  means 
affected  their  social  position.  Here  came  many 
officers  to  stay,  and  their  red  coats  used  to  please  my 
eyes  as  I  went  by  the  porch,  where  at  evening  I  saw 
them  smoking  long  pipes,  and  saying  not  very  nice 
things  of  the  local  gentry,  or  of  the  women  as  they 
passed  by,  and  calling  "  Mohair ! "  after  the  gentle- 
men, a  manner  of  army  word  of  contempt  for  citizens. 
I  liked  well  enough  the  freedom  I  now  enjoyed,  and 
found  it  to  my  fancy  to  wander  a  little  on  my  way  to 
school,  although  usually  I  followed  the  creek,  and, 
where  Second  street  crossed  it,  lingered  on  the  bridge 
to  watch  the  barges  or  galleys  come  up  at  full  of  tide 
to  the  back  of  the  warehouses  on  the  northeast  bank. 
I  have  observed  that  teachers  are  often  eccentric, 
and  surely  David  Dove  was  no  exception,  nor  do  I 
now  know  why  so  odd  a  person  was  chosen  by  many 
for  the  care  of  youth.  I  fancy  my  mother  had  to  do 
with  the  choice  in  my  case,  and  was  influenced  by 
the  fact  that  Dove  rarely  used  the  birch,  but  had  a 
queer  fancy  for  setting  culprits  on  a  stool,  with  the 
bireh  switch  stuck  in  the  back  of  the  jacket,  so  as  to 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         27 

st«nd  up  behind  the  head.  I  hat^  this,  and  wonld 
leather  have  been  birched  secuudum  artem  tlum  to 
have  seen  the  girls  gigghug  at  me.  I  changed  my 
opinion  hiter. 

Thus  my  uneventful  life  ran  on,  while  I  learned  to 
write,  and  accjuired,  with  other  simple  knowledge, 
t'uough  of  Latin  and  Greek  to  fit  me  for  entrance  at 
tlie  academy,  which  Dr.  Frankhn  had  founded  in  1750, 
in  the  hidl  on  Fourth  street,  built  for  Whitefield's 
preaching. 

At  this  time  I  fell  much  into  the  company  of  John 
Warder,  a  lad  of  my  own  age,  and  a  son  of  that 
Joseph  who  liked  cake,  and  was,  as  my  mother  said, 
solicitous.  Most  of  the  games  of  boys  were  not 
esteemed  fitting  by  Friends,  and  hence  we  were 
somewhat  limited  in  our  resources ;  but  to  fish  in  the 
creek  we  were  fi'ce ;  also  to  haunt  the  ships  and  hear 
sea  yarns,  and  to  skate  in  winter,  were  not  forbidden. 
Jack  Warder  I  took  to  because  he  was  full  of  stories, 
and  would  imagine  what  things  might  chance  to  my 
father's  ships  in  the  West  Indies ;  but  why,  in  those 
early  days,  he  liked  me,  I  do  not  know. 

Our  school  life  with  Dove  ended  after  four  years 
in  an  odd  fashion.  I  was  then  about  twelve,  and 
hatl  become  a  vigorous,  daring  boy,  with,  as  it  now 
seems  to  me,  something  of  the  fortunate  gaiety  of 
my  mother.  Other  lads  thought  it  singular  tliat  in 
j)eril  I  became  strangely  vivacious ;  but  underneath 
T  had  a  share  of  the  relentless  firmness  of  my  father, 
and  of  his  va.st  dislike  of  failure,  and  of  his  love  of 
truth.     I  have  often  thought  that  the  father  in  me 


28         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

saved  me  from  the  consequences  of  so  much  of  my 
mother's  gentler  nature  as  might  have  done  me  harm 
in  the  rude  conflicts  of  hf  e. 

David  Dove,  among  other  odd  ways,  devised  a  plan 
for  punishing  the  unpunctual  which  had  consider- 
able success.  One  day,  when  I  had  far  overstayed 
the  hour  of  eight,  by  reason  of  having  climbed  into 
Friend  Pemberton's  gardens,  where  I  was  tempted  by 
many  green  apples,  I  was  met  by  f  oui'  older  boys.  One 
had  a  lantern,  which,  with  much  laughter,  he  tied 
about  my  neck,  and  one,  marching  before,  rang  a  bell. 
I  had  seen  this  queer  punishment  fall  on  others,  and 
certainly  the  amusement  shown  by  people  in  the 
streets  would  not  have  hurt  me  compared  with  the 
advantage  of  pockets  full  of  apples,  had  I  not  of  a 
sudden  seen  my  father,  who  usually  breakfasted  at 
six,  and  was  at  his  warehouse  by  seven.  He  looked 
at  me  composedly,  but  went  past  us  saying  nothing. 

On  my  return  about  eleven,  he  unluckily  met  me 
in  the  garden,  for  I  had  gone  the  back  way  in  order 
to  hide  my  apples.  I  had  an  unpleasant  half -hour, 
despite  my  mother's  tears,  and  was  sent  at  once  to 
confess  to  Friend  James  Pemberton.  The  good 
man  said  I  was  a  naughty  boy,  but  must  come  later 
when  the  apples  were  red  ripe,  and  I  should  take  all 
I  wanted,  and  I  might  fetch  with  me  another  boy, 
or  even  two.  I  never  forgot  this,  and  did  him  some 
good  turns  in  after-years,  and  right  gladly  too. 

In  my  own  mind  I  associated  David  Dove  with 
this  painful  interview  with  my  father.  I  dishked 
him  the  more  because,  when  the  procession  entered 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         29 

the  school,  a  little  girl  for  whom  Wai-der  and  I  had 
a  boy  friendship,  in  place  of  laughing,  as  did  the  rest, 
for  some  reason  began  to  cry.  This  angered  the 
master,  "vvlio  had  the  lack  of  self-control  often  seen  in 
eccentric  people.  He  asked  why  she  cried,  and  on 
her  sobbing  out  that  it  was  because  she  was  sorry 
for  me,  he  bade  her  take  off  her  stays.  These  being 
stiff,  and  worn  outside  the  gown,  would  have  made 
the  punishment  of  the  bii-ch  on  the  shoidders  of  tri- 
Hiug  moment. 

As  it  was  usual  to  whip  girls  at  school,  the  little 
maid  said  nothing,  but  did  as  slie  was  bid,  taking  a 
sharp  birching  without  a  crj*.  Meanwhile  I  sat  with 
my  head  in  my  hands,  and  my  Angel's  in  my  ears  lest 
I  should  hear  her  weeping.  After  school  that  even- 
ing, when  all  but  Warder  and  I  had  wandered  home, 
I  wrote  on  the  outside  wall  of  the  school-house  with 
chidk,  "  David  Dove  Is  A  Cniel  Beast,"  and  went 
away  .somewhat  better  contented. 

Now,  with  all  his  seeming  dislike  to  use  the  rod, 
DaNnd  had  turns  of  severity,  and  then  he  was  far 
more  bnital  than  any  man  I  have  ever  known. 
Therefore  it  did  not  surprise  us  next  morning  that 
the  earlier  scholars  were  looking  ■\nth  wonder  and 
alarm  at  the  sentence  on  the  wall,  when  Dove,  ap- 
pearing behind  us,  ordered  us  to  enter  at  once. 

Going  to  his  desk,  he  ])ut  on  his  spectacles,  which 
then  were  worn  astride  of  the  nose.  In  a  minute  he 
set  on  below  them  a  second  j)air,  and  this  we  knew  to 
be  a  signal  of  coming  violence.  Then  he  stood  up, 
and  asked  who  bad  written  the  opprobrious  epithet 


30        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

on  the  wall.  As  no  one  replied,  he  asked  several  in 
turn,  but  luckily  chose  the  gii'ls,  thinking,  perhaps, 
that  they  would  weakly  betray  the  sinner.  Soon  he 
lost  patience,  and  cried  out  he  would  give  a  king's 
pound  to  know. 

When  he  had  said  this  over  and  over,  I  began  to 
reflect  that,  if  he  had  any  real  idea  of  doing  as  he 
promised,  a  pound  was  a  great  sum,  and  to  consider 
what  might  be  done  with  it  in  the  way  of  marbles  of 
Amsterdam,  tops,  and  of  certain  much-desired  books, 
for  now  this  latter  temptation  was  upon  me,  as  it 
has  been  ever  since.  As  I  sat,  and  Dove  thundered, 
I  remembered  how,  when  one  Stacy,  with  an  oath, 
assiu'ed  my  father  that  his  word  was  as  good  as  his 
bond,  my  parent  said  dryly  that  this  equality  left  him 
free  to  choose,  and  he  would  prefer  his  bond.  I  saw 
no  way  to  what  was  for  me  the  mysterious  security 
of  a  bond,  but  I  did  conceive  of  some  need  to  stiffen 
the  promise  Dove  had  made  before  I  faced  the 
penalty. 

Upon  this  I  held  up  a  hand,  and  the  master  cried, 
"Wliatisit?" 

I  said,  "  Master,  if  a  boy  should  tell  thee  wouldst 
thou  surely  give  a  pound  ? " 

At  this  a  lad  called  "  Shame ! "  thinking  I  was  a 
telltale. 

When  Dove  called  silence  and  renewed  his  pledge, 
I,  overbold,  said,  "Master,  I  did  it,  and  now  wilt 
thou  please  to  give  me  a  pound— a  king's  pound?" 

"  I  will  give  thee  a  pounding ! "  he  roared ;  and 
upon  this  came  down  from  his  raised  form,  and  gave 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         31 

me  a  beating  so  terrible  and  cruel  that  at  last  the 
girls  cried  aloud,  and  he  let  me  drop  on  the  floor, 
sore  and  angrv.  I  lav  still  awhile,  and  then  went  to 
my  seat.  As  I  bent  over  my  desk,  it  was  rather  the 
sense  that  I  had  been  wronged,  than  the  pain  of  the 
blows,  which  troubled  nie. 

After  school,  refusing  speech  to  any,  I  walked 
home,  and  ministered  to  my  poor  little  bniised  body 
as  I  best  could.  Now  this  being  a  Satiu'day,  and 
therefore  a  half -holiday,  I  ate  at  two  with  my  father 
and  mother. 

Presently  my  father,  detecting  my  uneasy  move- 
ments, said,  '*  Hast  thou  been  bii-ched  to-day,  and  for 
what  badness  ? " 

Upon  this  my  mother  said  softly,  "  What  is  it,  my 
son  ?  Have  no  fear.''  And  this  gentleness  being  too 
much  for  me,  I  fell  to  tears,  and  blurted  out  all  my 
little  tragedy. 

As  I  ended,  my  father  rose,  very  angry,  and  cried 
out,  "  Come  this  way !  "  But  my  mother  caught  me, 
sapng,  "  No !  no !  Look,  John  !  see  his  poor  neck 
and  his  -wTist !  What  a  brute !  I  tell  thee,  thou 
sluilt  not !  it  were  a  sin.  Leave  him  to  me,"  and  she 
thrust  me  behind  her  as  if  for  safety. 

To  my  surprise,  he  said,  "  As  thou  wilt,"  and  my 
mother  hurried  me  away.  We  had  a  grave,  sweet 
talk,  and  there  it  ended  for  a  time.  I  learned  tliat, 
after  all,  the  woman's  was  the  stronger  will.  I  was 
put  to  bed  and  declared  to  have  a  fever,  and  giv<'ii 
sulphur  and  treacle,  and  kept  out  of  the  paternal 
paths  for  a  mournful  day  of  enforced  rest. 


32        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

On  the  Monday  following  I  went  to  school  as 
usual,  but  not  without  fear  of  Dove.  When  we  were 
all  busy,  about  ten  o'clock,  I  was  amazed  to  hear  my 
father's  voice.  He  stood  before  the  desk,  and  ad- 
dressed Master  Dove  in  a  loud  voice,  meaning,  I 
suppose,  to  be  heard  by  all  of  us. 

"  David  Dove,"  he  said,  "  my  son  hath  been  guilty 
of  disrespect  to  thee,  and  to  thy  office.  I  do  not  say 
he  has  lied,  for  it  is  my  belief  that  thou  art  truly  an 
unjust  and  cruel  beast.  As  for  his  sin,  he  has  suf- 
fered enough  [I  felt  glad  of  this  final  opinion] ;  but 
a  bargain  was  made.  He,  on  his  part,  for  a  consid- 
eration of  one  pound  sterling,  was  to  tell  thee  who 
wrote  certain  words.  He  has  paid  thee  and  thou 
hast  taken  interest  out  of  his  skin.  Indeed,  Friend 
Shylock,  I  think  he  weighs  less  by  a  pound.  Thou 
wilt  give  him  his  pound.  Master  David." 

Upon  this  a  little  maid  near  by  smiled  at  me, 
and  Warder  punched  me  in  the  ribs.  Master  Dove 
was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  answered  that  there 
was  no  law  to  make  him  pay,  and  that  he  had  spoken 
lightly,  as  one  might  say, ''  I  would  give  this  or  that 
to  know."    But  my  father  replied  at  once : 

"  The  boy  trusted  thee,  and  was  as  good  as  his 
word.  I  advise  thee  to  pay.  As  thou  art  Master  to 
punish  boys,  so  will  I,  David,  use  thy  birch  on  thee 
at  need,  and  trust  to  the  great  Master  to  reckon  with 
me  if  I  am  wi'ong." 

All  this  he  said  so  fiercely  that  I  trembled  with 
joy,  and  hoped  that  Dove  would  deny  him ;  but,  in 
place  of  this,  he  muttered  something  about  Meeting 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        33 

and  Friends,  and  meanwhile  searched  his  pockets 
and  brought  out  a  guinea.  This  my  father  dropped 
into  his  breeches  pocket,  saying,  "  The  shilling  Avill 
be  for  interest"  (a  guinea  being  a  sliilling  over  a 
king's  pound).  After  this,  turning  to  me,  he  said, 
"Come  with  me,  Hugh,"  and  went  out  of  the  school- 
house,  I  following  after,  very  well  pleased,  and  think- 
ing of  my  guinea.  I  dared  not  ask  for  it,  and  I 
think  he  forgot  it.  He  went  along  homeward,  with 
his  head  bent  and  his  hands  behind  his  back.  In 
common,  he  walked  with  his  head  up  and  liis  chin  set 
forward,  as  though  he  did  a  little  look  down  on  the 
world  of  other  men ;  and  this  in  tnith  he  did,  being 
at  least  six  feet  tliree  inches  in  his  stocking-feet,  and 
■vsitli  no  lack  of  proportion  in  waist  or  chest. 

Next  day  I  asked  my  mother  of  my  guinea,  but  she 
laughed  gaily,  and  threw  up  her  hands,  and  cried,  "  A 
bad  debt  I  a  bad  debt,  Hugh  !  Dost  thou  want  more 
interest  ?  My  father  used  to  say  they  had  a  proverb 
in  the  Midi,  'If  the  devil  owe  thee  money  it  were 
best  to  lose  it.'  Le  (liable!  Oh,  what  am  I  saj-ing  ? 
Mon  fils,  forget  thy  debt.  Wliat  did  thy  father  say  ? " 
And  I  told  it  again  to  her  amusement;  but  she  said 
at  la.st,  very  seriously  : 

"  It  has  disturl)ed  thy  father  as  never  before  did 
ami;hing  since  he  would  not  join  with  Friend  Brad- 
ford against  the  Stamp  Act.  I  would  I  had  seen  him 
then,  or  this  time.  I  like  sometimes  to  see  a  strong 
man  in  just  anger.  Oh,  nion  IHeu !  wliat  did  I 
say !  I  am  but  half  a  Quaker,  I  fear."  My  mother 
never  would  turn  away  from  the  creed  of  her  peo- 


34        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

pie,  but  she  did  not  altogether  fancy  the  ways  of 
Friends. 

*'  Eh,  nioH  fits,  sometimes  I  say  naughty  words. 
Give  me  a  sweet  little  pat  on  the  cheek  for  my  bad- 
ness, and  always  come  to  me  with  all  thy  troubles." 
Then  I  kissed  her,  and  we  went  out  to  play  hide-and- 
flnd  in  the  orchai-d. 

My  father's  grim,  sarcastic  humour  left  him  as 
years  went  on,  and  he  became  as  entirely  serious 
as  I  ever  knew  a  man  to  be.  I  think  on  this  occa- 
sion his  after-annoyance,  which  endured  for  days, 
was  more  because  of  having  threatened  Dove  than 
for  any  other  cause.  He  no  doubt  regarded  me  as 
the  maker  of  the  mischief  which  had  tempted  him 
for  a  moment  to  forget  himself,  and  for  many  a  day 
his  unjust  severity  proved  that  he  did  not  readily 
forgive.  But  so  it  was  always.  My  mother  never 
failed  to  understand  me,  which  my  father  seemed 
rarely  able  to  do.  If  I  did  ill  he  used  the  strap  with 
little  mercy,  but  neither  in  these  early  years,  nor  in 
those  which  followed,  did  he  ever  give  me  a  word  of 
praise.  Many  years  afterward  I  found  a  guinea  in  a 
folded  paper,  laid  away  in  my  father's  desk.  On  the 
outer  cover  he  had  written,  "  This  belongs  to  Hugh, 
He  were  better  without  it." 

My  mother  scarce  ever  let  slip  her  little  French  ex- 
pletives or  phrases  in  my  f  athei*'s  hearing.  He  hated 
all  French  things,  and  declared  the  language  did  not 
ring  true— that  it  was  a  slippery  tongue,  in  which  it 
was  easy  to  lie.  A  proud,  strong  man  he  was  in 
those  days,  of  fixed  beUefs,  and  of  unchanging  loy- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         35 

alty  to  the  king.  In  his  own  house  he  was  feared  by 
his  son,  his  clerks,  and  his  servants ;  but  not  by  my 
mother,  who  cliarmed  him,  as  she  did  all  other  men, 
and  had  in  most  things  her  desire. 

Outside  of  his  own  walls  few  men  eared  to  oppose 
him.  He  was  rich,  and  coldly  despotic  ;  a  man  exact 
and  just  in  business,  but  well  able,  and  as  willing,  to 
help  with  a  free  hand  whatever  cause  was  of  interest 
to  Friends.  My  Aunt  Gainor,  a  little  his  senior,  was 
one  of  the  few  over  whom  he  had  no  manner  of  con- 
trol. She  went  her  own  way,  and  it  was  by  no  means 
his  way,  as  I  shall  make  more  clear  by  and  by. 

Two  davs  later  I  was  takeji  to  the  aeademv,  or  the 
college,  as  some  called  it,  which  is  now  the  university. 
^Iv  father  wrote  mv  name,  as  vou  mav  see  it  in  the 
catalogue,  and  his  own  signature,  with  the  date  of  Gth 
month  4th,  176').  Beneath  it  istheentry  of  John  War- 
der and  his  father,  Joseph ;  for  Jack  had  also  been 
removed  from  Dove's  dominion  because  of  what  my 
father  said  to  Joseph,  a  man  always  pliable,  and  ad- 
vised to  do  what  larger  men  thought  good.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  my  friend  Jack  and  I  were  by  good 
fortune  kept  in  constant  relation.  Our  schoolmate, 
the  small  maid  so  slight  of  limb,  so  dark  and 
tearful,  was  soon  sent  away  to  live  with  an  aunt 
in  Bri.stol,  on  the  Delaware,  having  become  an 
orphan  by  the  death  of  her  mother.  Darthea  Pen- 
iston  passed  out  of  my  life  for  many  years,  having 
been,  through  the  accident  of  her  tenderness,  the 
means  for  me  of  a  complete  and  fortunate  change. 


in 


HE  academy  was,  and  still  is,  a  plain 
brick  building,  set  back  from  Fourth 
street,  and  having  a  large  gravelled  space 
in  front  and  also  at  the  back.  The  main 
school-room  occupied  its  whole  westward 
length,  and  upstairs  was  a  vast  room,  with  bare  joists 
above,  in  which,  by  virtue  of  the  deed  of  gift,  any 
Christian  sect  was  free  to  worship  if  temporarily  de- 
prived of  a  home.  Here  the  great  Whitefield  preached, 
and  here  generations  of  boys  were  taught.  Behind 
the  western  playground  was  the  graveyard  of  Christ 
Church.  He  was  thought  a  brave  lad  who,  after 
school  at  dusk  in  winter,  dared  to  chmb  over  and 
search  around  the  tombs  of  the  silent  dead  for  a  lost 
ball  or  what  not. 

I  was  mightilj'^  afraid  of  the  academy.  The  birch 
was  used  often  and  with  severity,  and,  as  I  soon 
found,  there  was  war  between  the  boys  and  the 
town  fellows  who  lived  to  north  and  east.  I  was 
also  to  discover  other  annoyances  quite  as  little  to 
the  taste  of  Friends,  such  as  stone  fights  or  snowball 
skirmishes.  Did  time  permit,  I  should  like  well  to 
linger  long  over  this  school  life.     The  college,  as  it 

36 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         37 

was  officially  called,  had  a  c:reat  reputation,  and  its 
eai'ly  eatJilooriios  ai'e  rich  with  names  of  those  who 
made  an  empii-e.  This  task  I  leave  to  other  pens, 
and  hasten  to  tell  my  own  personal  story. 

In  my  friend  Jack  Warders  jonrnal  there  is  a  kind 
pagre  or  two  as  to  what  manner  of  lad  I  was  in  his 
remembrance  of  me  in  aft/cr-yetu-s.  I  like  to  think 
it  was  a  true  pictiu'e. 

"When  Hutch  Wynne  and  I  went  to  school  at 
the  academy  on  Fourth  street,  south  of  Arch,  I  used 
to  en\y  him  his  strength.  At  twelve  he  was  as  tall 
as  are  most  lads  at  sixteen,  but  possessed  of  such 
activity  and  muscular  power  as  are  rarely  seen,  bid- 
ding; fair  to  attain,  as  he  did  later,  the  height  and 
massive  build  of  his  father.  He  was  a  gi'eat  lover 
of  risk,  and  not,  as  I  have  always  been,  fearful. 
WTien  we  took  apples,  after  the  fashion  of  all  xVdam's 
young  descendants,  he  was  as  like  as  not  to  give 
them  away.  I  think  he  went  with  us  on  these,  and 
some  •wilder  ei-rands,  chiefly  because  of  his  fondness 
for  danger,  a  thing  I  could  never  comprehend.  He 
still  has  his  mother's  great  eyes  of  blue,  and  a  fair, 
clear  skin.  God  bless  him !  Had  I  never  known 
him  I  might  i)erhaps  have  been,  as  to  one  thing,  a 
happier  man,  but  I  had  been  less  deserving  of  such 
good  fortune  as  has  come  to  me  in  life.  For  this  is 
one  of  the  uses  of  friends :  that  we  consider  how  such 
and  such  a  thing  we  are  moved  to  do  might  appear 
to  them.  And  this  for  one  of  my  kind,  who  have 
had— nay,  who  have— many  weaknesses,  has  been 
why  Hugh  Wynne  counts  for  so  much  to  me. 


38        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


"We,  with  two  other  smaller  boys,  were,  at  that 
time,  the  only  sons  of  Friends  at  the  academy,  and 
were,  thanks  to  the  brute  Dove,  better  grounded  in 
the  humanities  than  were  some,  although  we  were 
late  in  entering." 

I  leave  this  and  other  extracts  as  they  were  writ. 
A  more  upright  gentleman  than  John  Warder  I 
know  not,  nor  did  ever  know.  What  he  meant  by 
his  weaknesses  I  cannot  tell,  and  as  to  the  meaning 
of  one  phrase,  which  he  does  not  here  explain,  these 
pages  shall  perhaps  discover. 

Not  long  after  our  entrance  at  the  academy,  my 
father  charged  me  one  morning  with  a  note  to  my 
aunt,  Gainor  Wynne,  which  I  was  to  deliver  when 
the  morning  session  was  over.  As  this  would  make 
me  late,  in  case  her  absence  delayed  a  reply,  I  was 
to  remain  and  eat  my  midday  meal.  My  father  was 
loath  always  to  call  upon  his  sister.  She  had  early 
returned  to  the  creed  of  her  ancestors,  and  sat  on 
Sundays  in  a  great  square  pew  at  Christ  Church,  to 
listen  to  the  Rev.  Robert  Jennings.  Hither,  in  Sep- 
tember of  1763,  my  aunt  took  me,  to  my  father's  in- 
dignation, to  hear  the  great  Mr.  Whitefield  preach. 

Neither  Aunt  Gainor's  creed,  dress,  house,  nor 
society  pleased  her  brother.  She  had  early  made 
clear,  in  her  decisive  way,  that  I  was  to  be  her  heir, 
and  she  was,  I  may  add,  a  woman  of  large  estate.  I 
was  allowed  to  visit  her  as  I  pleased.  Indeed,  I  did 
so  often.  I  liked  no  one  better,  always  excepting  my 
mother.  Why,  with  my  father's  knowledge  of  her 
views,  I  was  thus  left  free  I  cannot  say.    He  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        39 

the  last  of  men  to  sacrifice  his  beliefs  to  motives 
of  fjaiu. 

Wlien  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  house  on  Arch 
street,  opposite  the  Friends'  Meeting-house,  a  black 
boy,  di'csscd  as  a  page,  let  nie  in.  He  was  clad  in 
gi*ay  armozine,  a  sort  of  corded  stuff,  witli  red  but- 
tons, and  he  wore  a  red  turban.  As  my  aunt  was 
gone  to  drive,  on  a  visit  to  that  Madam  Penn  who 
was  once  Miss  Allen,  I  was  in  no  hurry,  and  was 
glad  to  look  about  me.  The  parlour,  a  gi'eat  room 
with  three  windows  on  the  street,  afforded  a  strange 
contrast  to  my  sober  home.  There  were  Smyrna 
rugs  on  a  polished  floor,  a  thing  almost  unheard  of. 
Indeed,  people  came  to  see  them.  The  furniture  was 
all  of  red  walnut,  and  carved  in  shells  and  flower  re- 
liefs. There  were  so  many  tables,  little  and  larger, 
with  claw-feet  or  spindle-legs,  that  one  had  to  be 
careful  not  to  overturn  their  loads  of  Chinese  drag- 
ons, ivory  carvings,  grotesque  Delft  beasts,  and  fans, 
French  or  Spanish  or  of  the  Orient.  There  was  also 
a  spinet,  and  a  corner  closet  of  books,  of  which 
every  packet  brought  her  a  variety.  Upstairs  was  a 
fair  room  full  of  volumes,  big  and  httle,  as  I  found 
to  my  joy  rather  later,  and  these  were  of  all  kinds : 
some  good,  and  some  of  them  queer,  or  naughty. 
Over  the  wide,  white  fireplace  was  a  portrait  of  her- 
self by  the  elder  Peale,  but  I  prefer  the  one  now  in 
my  library.  Tliis  latter  hung,  at  the  time  I  speak  of, 
l>etween  the  windows.  It  was  significant  of  my  aunt's 
idea  of  her  own  importance  that  slio  should  have 
wished  to  possess  two  portraits  of  herself.    The  lat- 


40        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

ter  was  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  when  she 
was  in  England  in  1750,  and  represents  her  as  a  fine, 
large  woman  with  features  which  were  too  big  for 
loveliness  in  youth,  but  in  after-years  went  well  with 
her  abundant  gi'ay  hair  and  unusual  stature ;  for,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  she  was  tall,  of  vigorous  and  whole- 
some build  and  colour,  with  large,  well-shaped  hands, 
and  the  strength  of  a  man— I  might  add,  too,  with 
the  independence  of  a  man.  She  went  her  own 
way,  conducted  the  business  of  her  estate,  which 
was  ample,  with  skill  and  ability,  and  asked  advice 
from  no  one.  Like  my  father,  she  had  a  liking  to 
control  those  about  her,  was  restlessly  busy,  and 
was  never  so  pleased  as  when  engaged  in  arranging 
other  people's  lives,  or  meddling  with  the  making 
of  matches. 

To  this  ample  and  luxurious  house  came  the  bet- 
ter class  of  British  officers,  and  ombre  and  quadrille 
were  often,  I  fear,  played  late  into  the  long  nights  of 
winter.  Single  women,  after  a  certain  or  uncertain 
age,  were  given  a  brevet  title  of  ''  Mistress."  Mis- 
tress Gainor  "Wynne  lost  or  won  with  the  coolness  of 
an  old  gambler,  and  this  habit,  perhaps  more  than 
aught  beside,  troubled  my  father.  Sincere  and  con- 
sistent in  his  views,  I  can  hardly  think  that  my 
father  was,  after  all,  unable  to  resist  the  worldly  ad- 
vantages which  my  aunt  declared  should  be  mine. 
It  was,  in  fact,  difficult  to  keep  me  out  of  the  obvi- 
ous risks  this  house  and  company  provided  for  a 
young  person  like  myself.  He  must  have  trusted  to 
the  influence  of  my  home  to  keep  me  in  the  ways  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        41 

Friends.  It  is  also  to  be  remembered,  as  regai'ds  my 
fathers  motives,  that  my  Aunt  Gainor  was  my  only 
relative,  since  of  the  Owens  none  were  left. 

My  mother  was  a  prime  favourite  with  this  master- 
ful lady.  She  loved  nothing:  better  than  to  give  her 
fine  silk  pettieoats  or  a  pearl-coloured  satin  goAvn  ;  and 
if  this  should  nowadays  amaze  Friends,  let  them  but 
look  in  the  "  Observer,"  and  see  what  manner  of  fin- 
ery was  advertised  in  1778  as  stole  from  our  fri(?nd, 
Sarah  Fisher,  sometime  Sai-ah  Logan,  a  much  re- 
spected member  of  Meeting.  In  this,  as  in  all  else, 
my  mother  had  her  way,  and,  like  some  of  the 
upper  class  of  Quaker.^-',  wore  at  times  such  raiment 
as  fifty  yeai-s  later  would  have  surely  brought  about 
a  visit  from  a  committee  of  overseers. 

"Waiting  for  Aunt  Gamor,  I  fell  upon  an  open 
parcel  of  books  just  come  by  the  late  spring  packet. 
Among  these  turned  up  a  new  and  fine  edition  of 
"  Captain  Gulliver's  Travels,"  by  Mr.  Dean  Swift.  I 
lit  first,  among  these  famous  adventures,  on  an  ex- 
traordinary passage,  so  wonderful,  indeed,  and  so 
amusing,  that  I  heard  not  the  entrance  of  my  father, 
who  at  the  door  had  met  mv  aunt,  and  with  her  some 
fine  ladies  of  the  governor's  set.  There  wei'e  Mrs. 
Ferguson,  too  well  known  in  the  politics  of  later 
years,  but  now  only  a  beautiful  and  gay  woman. 
Madam  Allen,  and  Madam  Chew,  the  wife  of  the 
Attorney-General. 

They  were  eagerly  discussing,  and  laugliingly  in- 
quiring of  my  father,  wliat  colour  of  masks  for  the 
street  was  to  be  preferred.     He  was  in  no  wise  em- 


42         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

barrassed  by  these  fine  dames,  and  never,  to  my 
thinking,  was  seen  to  better  advantage  than  among 
what  he  called  "  world's  people."  He  seemed  to  me 
more  really  at  home  than  among  Friends,  and  as  he 
towered,  tall,  and  gravely  courteous  in  manner,  I 
thought  him  a  grand  gentleman. 

As  I  looked  up,  the  young  Miss  Chew,  who  after- 
ward married  Colonel  Eager  Howard,  was  saying 
saucily,  "  Does  not  Madam  "Wynne  wear  a  mask  for 
her  skin  ?    It  is  worth  keeping,  Mr.  Wynne." 

"  Let  me  recommend  to  you  a  vizard  with  silver 
buttons  to  hold  in  the  mouth,  or,  better,  a  riding- 
mask,"  cried  Aunt  Gainor,  pleased  at  this  gentle 
badgering,  "  lil^e  this,  John.  See,  a  flat  silver  plate 
to  hold  between  the  teeth.     It  is  the  last  thing." 

"  White  silk  would  suit  her  best,"  cried  Mrs.  Fergu- 
son, ''or  green,  with  a  chin-curtain— a  loo-mask. 
Which  would  you  have,  sir?" 

"Indeed,"  he  said  quietly,  "her  skin  is  good  enough. 
I  know  no  way  to  better  it." 

Then  they  all  laughed,  pelting  the  big  man  with 
many  questions,  until  he  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
as  he  declared  he  was  overwhelmed,  and  would  come 
on  his  business  another  day.  But  on  this  the  women 
would  not  stay,  and  took  themselves  and  their  high 
bonnets  and  many  petticoats  out  of  the  room,  each 
dropping  a  curtsey  at  the  door,  and  he  bomng  low, 
like  Mr.  John  Penn,  as  never  before  I  had  seen 
him  do. 

No  sooner  were  they  gone  than  he  desired  me  to 
give  him  the  note  he  had  written  to  his  sister,  since 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        43 

now  it  was  not  needed,  and  then  he  inquired  what 
book  I  was  reading.  Aunt  Gainor  glanced  at  it,  and 
replied  for  me.  ''  A  book  of  travels,  John,  very  im- 
proving: too.  Take  it  home,  Huirh,  and  read  it.  If 
you  find  in  it  no  improprieties,  it  may  be  recom- 
mended to  your  father."  She  loved  nothing  better 
than  to  tease  him. 

"  I  see  not  what  hann  there  could  be  in  travels," 
he  retiu'ned.  "  Thou  hast  ray  leave.  Gainor,  what 
is  tliis  I  hear  ?  Thou  wouldst  have  had  me  sell  thee 
for  a  venture  threescore  hogsheads  of  tobacco  from 
Annapolis.  I  like  not  to  trade  with  my  sister,  nor 
that  she  should  trade  at  all ;  and  now,  when  I  have 
let  them  go  to  another,  I  hear  that  it  is  thou  who 
art  the  real  buyer.  I  came  hither  to  warn  thee  that 
other  cargoes  are  to  an-ive.     Thon  wilt  lose." 

Aunt  Gainor  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  but  let 
loose  the  linen  safeguard  petticoat  she  wore  against 
mud  or  dust  when  riding,  and  appeared  in  a  rich  bro- 
cade of  gi-ay  silken  stuff,  and  a  striped  under-gown. 
"VMien  she  had  put  off  her  loose  camlet  over-jacket, 
she  said,  "  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  ^Madeira,  or  shall 
it  be  Hollands,  John  ?     Ring  the  beU,  Hugh." 

"  Hollands,"  said  my  father. 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  your  tobacco  to-day, 
John?" 

"  WTiy  dost  thou  trifle  ?"  he  returned. 

"  I  sold  it  again,  John.  I  am  the  bett<^r  by  an  hun- 
dred pounds.  Two  tobacco-ships  are  wrecked  f»n 
Hinlopen.  An  express  is  come.  Have  you  not 
heard T" 


44        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  Farewell,"  lie  said,  rising.  He  made  no  comment 
on  her  news.  I  had  an  idea  that  he  would  not  have 
been  unhappy  had  she  lost  on  her  venture. 

Joseph  Warder  was  her  agent  then  and  afterward. 
She  rarely  lost  on  her  purchases.  Although  gener- 
ous, and  even  lavish,  she  dearly  loved  a  good  bar- 
gain, and,  I  believe,  liked  the  game  far  more  than  she 
cared  for  success  in  the  playing  of  it. 

"Come,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "let  us  eat  and  drink. 
Take  the  book  home,  and  put  it  away  for  your  own 
reading.  Here  is  sixpence  out  of  my  gains.  I  hope 
you  will  never  need  to  trade,  and,  indeed,  why  should 
you,  whether  I  live  or  die  ?  How  would  the  king's 
service  suit  you,  and  a  pair  of  colours  ?  " 

I  said  I  should  like  it. 

"  There  is  a  pretty  tale,  Hugh,  of  the  French  gen- 
tlemen, who,  being  poor,  have  to  make  money  in  com- 
merce. They  leave  theu'  swords  with  a  magistrate, 
and  when  they  are  become  rich  enough  take  them 
back  again.  There  is  some  pleasing  ceremony,  but 
I  forget.  The  Wynnes  have  been  long  enough  in 
drab  and  trade.  It  is  time  we  took  back  our  swords, 
and  quitted  bow-thouing  and  bow-theeing." 

I  said  I  did  not  understand. 

"Oh,  you  will,"  said  Aunt  Gainor,  gi\dng  me  a 
great  apple-dumpling.  "  Take  some  molasses.  Oh, 
as  much  as  j^ou  please.  I  shall  look  away,  as  I  do 
when  the  gentlemen  take  their  rum." 

You  may  be  sure  I  obeyed  her.  As  to  much  that 
she  said,  I  was  shocked ;  but  I  never  could  resist  a 
Jaugh,  and  so  we  made  meriy  like  children,  as  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         45 

usual,  for,  as  she  used  to  say,  "To  le^im  -w-hen  to 
laugh  aud  when  not  to  laugh  is  an  education." 

When  my  meal  was  over,  and  my  stomach  and  my 
pockets  all  full,  Aunt  Gainor  bade  me  sit  on  her 
knees,  and  began  to  tell  me  about  what  fine  gentle- 
men were  the  Wynnes,  and  how  foohsh  my  grand- 
fatlier  had  been  to  turn  (Quaker  and  give  up  fox-hunt- 
ing and  the  old  place.  I  was  told,  too,  how  much  she 
had  lost  to  Mr.  Penn  last  night,  and  more  that  was 
neither  well  for  me  to  hear  nor  wise  for  her  to  tell ; 
but  as  to  this  she  cared  little,  and  she  sent  me  away 
tlien,  as  far  too  many  times  afterward,  fidl  of  my  own 
import^mce,  and  of  desii-e  to  escape  some  day  from 
the  threatened  life  of  the  ledger  and  the  day-book. 

At  last  she  said, "  You  are  getting  too  hea\y,  Hugh. 
Handsome  Mrs.  Ferguson  says  you  are  too  big  to  be 
kissed,  and  not  old  enough  to  kiss,"  and  so  she  bade 
me  go  forth  to  the  afternoon  session  of  the  academy. 

After  two  weeks  at  the  academy  I  got  my  first 
lesson  in  the  futility  of  non-resistance,  so  that  all 
the  lessons  of  mv  life  in  favour  of  this  doctrine  were, 

ft  ' 

of  a  sudden,  rendered  vain.   We  were  going  home  in 

the  afternoon,  gay  and  happy,  Jack  Warder  to  take 

supper  with  me,  and  to  use  a  boat  my  aunt  had 

given  me. 

Near  to  High  street  was  a  vacant  lot  full  of  bushes 

and  briers.   Here  the  elder  lads  paused,  and  one  said, 

"  Wynne,  you  are  to  fight." 

I  rejilied,  "  Wliy  should  I  fight  ?     T  will  not." 

*'  But  it  is  to  get  your  standing  in  the  school,  and 

Totn  Alloway  is  to  fight  you." 


46         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  This  was  a  famous  occasion  in  our  lives,"  writes 
my  friend  Jack  j  "  for,  consider :  I,  who  was  a  girl  for 
timidity,  was  sure  to  have  my  turn  next,  and  here 
were  we  two  little  fellows,  who  had  heard  every  Fii-st- 
day,  and  ever  and  ever  at  home,  that  all  things  were 
to  be  suffered  of  all  men  (and  of  boys  too,  I  presume). 
I  was  troubled  for  Hugh,  but  I  noticed  that  while  he 
said  he  would  not  fight  he  was  buttoning  up  his  jacket 
and  tui-ning  back  the  cuff  of  one  sleeve.  Also  he 
smiled  as  he  said,  'No,  I  cannot;'  and  many  times 
since  I  have  seen  him  merry  in  danger. 

"  For,  of  a  truth,  never  later  did  he  or  I  feel  the 
sense  of  a  gi'eat  peril  as  we  did  that  day,  with  the 
bigger  boys  hustling  us,  and  Alloway  crying,  '  Cow- 
ard ! '  I  looked  about  for  some  man  who  would  help 
us,  but  there  was  no  one ;  only  a  cow  hobbled  near 
by.  She  looked  up,  and  then  went  on  chewing  her 
cud.     I,  standing  behind  Hugh,  said,  '  Run !  run !' 

"The  counsel  seemed  good  to  me  who  gave  it. 
As  I  think  on  it  now,  I  was  in  great  perplexity  of 
soul,  and  had  a  horrible  fear  as  to  bodily  hurt.  I 
turned,  followed  by  Hugh,  and  ran  fleetly  across  the 
open  ground  and  through  the  bushes.  About  mid- 
way I  looked  back.  Two  lads  were  near  upon  us, 
when  I  saw  Hugh  drop  upon  his  hands  and  knees. 
Both  fellows  rolled  over  him,  and  he  called  out,  as 
they  fell  to  beating  him,  '  Run,  Jack  ! ' 

"  But  I  was  no  longer  so  minded.  I  kicked  one  boy, 
and  struck  another,  and  even  now  recall  how  a  strange 
joy  captured  me  when  I  struck  the  first  blow." 

There  was  a  fine  scrimmage,  for  no  quarter  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        47 

asked  or  given,  and  I  saw  my  poor  Jaek's  girl  face 
bloodv.  This  was  the  last  I  remember  clearly,  for  the 
lust  of  battle  was  on  me,  and  I  can  recall  no  more  of 
what  chanced  for  a  little,  than  I  could  in  later  years 
of  the  wild  nielley  on  the  main  street  of  Germautown, 
or  of  the  struggle  in  the  redoubt  at  Yorktowu. 

Presently  we  were  cast  to  right  and  left  by  a  strong 
hand,  and,  looking  up,  as  I  stood  fierce  and  panting, 
I  saw  Friend  Rupert  Forest,  and  was  overwhelmed 
with  fear;  for  often  on  First-day  I  had  heard  him 
preach  solemnly,  and  always  it  was  as  to  turning  the 
other  cheek,  and  on  the  wickedness  of  profane  lan- 
guage. Just  now  he  seemed  pleased  rather  than 
angered,  and  said,  smiling: 

*' This  is  a  big  war,  boys.     What  is  it  about?" 

I  said,  "  I  must  fight  for  my  standing,  and  I  will 
not." 

"  I  think  thou  wert  scarcely  of  that  mind  just 
now.     There  will  be  bad  blood  until  it  is  over." 

To  this  I  replied,  "  It  is  Alloway  I  am  to  fight." 

To  my  suq)rise,  he  went  on  to  say,  "  Then  take  off 
thy  jacket  and  stand  up,  and  no  kicking." 

I  a.sked  nothing  better,  and  began  to  laugh.  At 
this  my  foe,  who  was  bigger  and  older  than  I,  cried 
out  that  I  would  laugh  on  the  other  side  of  my 
mouth— a  queer  })oy  phrase  of  wliich  I  could  never 
discover  the  meaning. 

"  And  now,  fair  i)lay,"  said  Friend  Forest.  "  Keep 
cool,  Hugh,  and  wat<!h  his  eyes." 

I  felt  glad  that  he  was  on  my  side,  and  we  fell  to 
with  no  more  words.     I  was  no  match  for  the  prac- 


48         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

tised  fists  of  my  antagonist ;  but  I  was  the  stronger, 
and  I  kept  my  wits  better  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. At  last  I  got  his  head  under  my  arm  with  a 
grip  on  his  gullet,  and  so  mauled  him  with  my  right 
fist  that  Friend  Forest  pulled  me  away,  and  my  man 
staggered  back,  bloody,  and  white  too,  while  I  was 
held  like  a  dog  in  leash. 

"  He  hath  enough,  I  think.     Ask  him." 
I  cried  out,  "  No !     Damn  him !  "    It  was  my  first 
oath. 

"  Hush !  "  cried  Forest.  "  No  profane  language." 
"  I  will  not  speak  to  him,"  said  I,  "  and— and— he 
is  a  beast  of  the  pit."  Now  this  fine  statement  I 
had  come  upon  in  a  book  of  Mr.  WiUiam  Penn's  my 
father  owned,  wherein  the  governor  had  denounced 
one  Mr.  Muggleton. 

Friend  Forest  laughed  merrily.  "  Thou  hast  thy 
standing,  lad."  For  Alloway  walked  sullenly  away, 
not  man  enough  to  take  more  or  to  confess  defeat. 
Jack,  who  was  still  white,  said : 

"■  It  is  my  turn  now,  and  which  shall  it  be  ? " 
"  Shade  of  Fox !  "  cried  Friend  Forest.     "  The  wal- 
ls over.    Come,  boys,  I  must  see  you  well  out  of  this." 
And  so  reassuring  us,  he  went  down  Fourth  street, 
and  to  my  home. 

My  father  was  in  the  sitting-room,  taking  his  long- 
stemmed  reed  pipe  at  his  ease.  He  rose  as  we  fol- 
lowed Friend  Forest  into  the  room. 

"Well,"  he  said,  ''what  coil  is  this?"  For  we 
were  bloody,  and  hot  with  fight  and  wrath,  and 
our  garments  in  very  sad  disorder. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         49 

Friend  Forest  very  quietly  related  oiir  story,  and 
made  mucli  of  liis  own  share  in  the  renewal  of  our 
battle.     To  my  surprise,  my  father  smiled. 

"  It  seems  plain,"  he  said,  "  that  the  lads  were  not 
to  blame.  But  how  wilt  thou  answer  to  the  Meet- 
ing, Rupert  Forest  ? " 

"  To  it,  to  thee,  to  any  man,"  said  the  Quaker. 

"  It  is  but  a  month  ago  that  thy  case  was  before 
Friends  because  of  thy  haviug  beaten  Friend  Wain's 
man.     It  will  go  ill  with  thee — ill,  I  fear." 

"  And  who  is  to  spread  it  abroad  ? " 

"Not  I,"  said  mv  father. 

"  I  knew  that,"  returned  the  Friend,  simply.  "  I 
am  but  a  jack-in-the-box  Quaker,  John.  I  am  in  and 
out  in  a  moment,  and  then  I  go  back  and  repent." 

"  Let  us  hope  so.  Go  to  thy  mother,  Hugh ;  and 
88  to  thee,  John  Warder,  wait  untd  I  send  with  thee 
a  note  to  thy  father.  There  are  liquors  on  the  table, 
Friend  Forest." 

^ly  mother  set  us  in  order,  and  cried  a  little,  and 
said : 

"  I  am  glad  he  was  well  beaten.  Thou  shouldst 
never  fight,  my  son ;  but  if  thou  must,  let  it  be  so 
that  thy  advei'san.''  repent  of  it.  Man  Dieu !  mon 
Dieul  Jen  ai  jxur;  the  wild  Welsh  blood  of  these 
Wynnes !  And  thy  poor  little  nose— how  't  is 
swelled ! " 

Not  understanding  her  exclamations.  Jack  said  as 
much,  V)ut  she  answered  : 

**0h,  it  is  a  fashion  of  speech  we  Freucli  have.  I 
shall  never  be  cured  of  it.  I  fear.    This  wild  blood  — 


50        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

what  will  come  of  it?"  And  she  seemed— as  Jack 
writes  long  after,  being  more  observing  than  I — as 
if  she  were  looking  away  into  the  distance  of  time, 
thinking  of  what  might  come  to  pass.  She  had, 
indeed,  strange  insight,  and  even  then,  as  I  knew 
later,  had  her  fears  and  unspoken  anxieties.  And 
so,  with  a  plentiful  supper,  ended  a  matter  which 
was,  I  may  say,  a  critical  point  in  my  life. 


IV 


FTER  this  my  days  went  by  more  peace- 
fully. The  help  and  example  of  Jack 
assisted  me  greatly  in  my  lessons,  which 
I  did  little  relish.  I  was  more  fond  of 
reading,  and  devoured  many  books  as  I 
sat  under  our  orchard  trees  in  the  spring,  or  nestled 
up  to  the  fire  on  the  long  winter  evenings,  coiled  on 
the  settle,  that  its  high  back  might  keep  off  drafts. 
My  aunt  lent  me  an  abundance  of  books  after  that 
famous  "  Travels  "  of  Mr.  Gulliver,  Now  and  then 
my  father  looked  at  what  she  gave  me,  but  he  soon 
tired  of  this,  and  fell  asleep  in  the  great  oak  chair 
which  Governor  Peun  gave  my  grandfather. 

Many  volumes,  and  some  queer  ones,  I  fell  upon  in 
my  aunt's  house,  but,  save  once,  against  the  naughti- 
ness of  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn,  she  never  iiitei-fered.  We 
liked  greatly  a  book  '-ailed  "  Peter  Wilkins,"  by  one 
Paltock,  full  of  a  qu'-er  folk,  who  had  winged  "  graun- 
dees,"  a  sort  of  crimson  robe  made  of  folds  of  their 
own  skin.  None  read  it  now.  My  dear  Jack  fancied 
it  much  more  than  I. 

I  was  nigh  to  fifteen  before  we  read  "  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  but  even  earlier  I  devoured  at  my  aunt's 


52         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"Captain  Jack"  and  "The  History  of  the  Devil." 
The  former  book  filled  us  vnth  delight.  Jack  and 
I  used  to  row  over  to  Windmill  Island,  on  the  great 
Delaware,  and  there  at  the  south  end  we  built  a  hut, 
and  slew  bullfrogs,  and  found  steps  on  the  sand,  I 
being  thereafter  Friday,  and  Jack  my  master.  We 
made,  too,  a  sail  and  mast  for  my  boat,  and,  thus 
aided,  saUed  of  Saturdays  up  and  down  the  noble 
river,  which  I  have  always  loved. 

A  still  greater  joy  was  to  go  in  our  chaise  with  my 
mother  to  the  governoi'^s  woods,  which  extended  from 
Broad  street  to  the  Schuylkill,  and  from  CallowhiU 
to  South  street.  There  we  tied  the  horse,  and  under 
the  great  trees  we  found  in  spring  arbutus,  even  be- 
neath the  snow,  and  later  fetched  thence  turkey-foot 
ferns,  and  wild  honeysuckle,  and  quaker-ladies,  with 
jack-in- the-puipits  and  fearful  gray  corpse-lights  hid 
away  in  the  darker  woods.  In  the  forest  my  mother 
seemed  even  younger  than  at  home,  and  played  with 
us,  and  told  us  quaint  tales  of  her  French  people,  or 
fairy  stories  of  Griant  Jack  and  others,  which  were 
by  no  means  such  as  Friends  approved. 

In  our  house  one  same  stern,  unbending  rule  pre- 
vailed. I  have  been  told  by  my  aunt,  Gainor  Wynne, 
that  when  he  was  young  my  father  was  not  always  so 
steadfast  in  conduct  as  to  satisfy  Friends.  When  I 
was  old  enough  to  observe  and  think,  he  had  surely 
become  strict  enough ;  but  this  severity  of  opinion 
and  action  increased  with  years,  and  showed  in  ways 
which  made  hfe  difficult  for  those  near  to  him.  In 
fact,  before  I  attained  manhood  the  tinted  arms  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        53 

the  picture  of  Wjiieote  were  put  away  in  the  attic 
room.  Aly  mothers  innocent  love  of  ornament  also 
boeame  to  liim  a  serious  annoyance,  and  these  pecu- 
liarities seemed  at  last  to  deepen  whenever  the  polit- 
ie;J  horizon  darkened.  At  such  times  he  became 
silent,  and  yet  more  keen  than  usual  to  detect  and 
denounce  an^-thing  in  our  home  life  which  was  not 
to  his  liking. 

The  affairs  of  a  yoimg  fellow  between  the  ages  of 
childhood  and  younger  nninhood  can  have  butmeagi'e 
interest.  Our  school  life  went  on,  and  while  we 
worked  or  played,  our  elders  saw  the  ever-increas- 
ing differences  between  king  and  colonies  becoming 
year  by  year  more  difficult  of  adjustment.  Except 
when  some  noisy  crisis  ai'ose,  they  had  for  us  lads 
but  little  interest. 

Most  people  used  the  city  landings,  or  lightered 
their  goods  from  ships  in  the  stream.  We,  however, 
had  a  great  dock  buUt  out  near  to  the  mouth  of  Dock 
Creek,  and  a  warehouse.  Hither  came  sloops  from 
my  fathers  ])lantation  of  tobacco,  near  Annapolis, 
and  othei-s  from  the  ''permitted  islands,"  the  Cape 
de  Verde  and  the  Madeiras.  Staves  for  ban-els, 
tobacco,  and  salt  fish  were  the  exports,  and  in  retiu*n 
came  Eastern  goods  brought  to  these  islands,  and 
huge  tuns  of  Madeira  wine.  Rum,  too,  ari'ived  from 
New  England,  and  salted  mackerel.  What  else  my 
father  imported,  of  French  goods  or  tea,  reached  us 
from  England,  for  W(;  were  not  allowed  to  trade  with 
the  continent  of  Europe  nor  directly  with  India. 

Once  my  father  took  me  with  Imn  to  Lewes,  near 


54        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Cape  Hinlopen,  on  one  of  his  ships,  and  to  my  joy  we 
were  met  there  by  Tom,  our  black  slave,  with  horses, 
and  rode  back  during  two  days  by  Newcastle  and 
Chester.  As  I  rode  ill,  of  course,  and  was  sore  for  a 
week,  my  father  thought  it  well  that  I  should  learn  to 
ride,  and  this  exercise  I  took  to  easily.  Just  before  I 
was  sixteen  my  aunt  gave  me  a  horse,  and  after  we 
had  separated  abruptly  a  few  times,  and  no  harm 
to  any,  I  became  the  master,  and  soon  an  expert 
rider,  as  was  needful  in  a  land  where  most  long  jour- 
neys were  made  on  horseback. 

It  seems  to  me  now,  as  I  look  back,  that  the  events 
of  life  were  preparing  me  and  my  friend  Jack  for 
what  was  to  follow.  Our  boating  made  every  part 
of  the  two  rivers  familiar.  Now  that  I  had  a  horse, 
Jack's  father,  who  would  always  do  for  him  readily 
what  my  Aunt  Gainor  did  for  me,  yielded  to  his  de- 
sire to  ride ;  and  so  it  was  that  we  began,  as  leisure 
served,  to  extend  our  rides  to  Germantown,  or  even 
to  Chestnut  Hill.  Thus  all  the  outlying  country 
became  well  known  to  both  of  us,  and  there  was  not 
a  road,  a  brook,  or  a  hill  which  we  did  not  know. 

Until  this  happy  time  I  had  been  well  pleased  to 
follow  my  aunt  on  a  pillion  behind  her  servant, 
Caesar,  but  now  I  often  went  with  her,  perched  on 
my  big  horse,  and  got  from  my  aunt,  an  excellent 
horsewoman,  some  sharp  lessons  as  to  leaping,  and 
certain  refinements  in  riding  that  she  had  seen  or 
known  of  in  London. 

A  Captain  Montresor— he  who  afterward,  when  a 
colonel,  was  Howe's  engineer— used  to  ride  with  her 


HughW^ynne:  Free  Quaker         55 

in  the  sprins:  of  '60.  He  was  a  tall,  stout  man  of 
middle  age.  and  much  spoken  of  as  likely  to  marry 
my  Auut  Gaiiior,  although  she  was  older  tliau  he, 
for,  as  fat  Oliver  de  Laneey  said  years  after,  *'  There 
is  no  age  to  a  woman's  money,  and  guineas  are  al- 
ways young."  My  aunt,  Gainor  Wynne,  was  still  a 
fine  gentlewoman,  and  did  not  look  her  years.  As 
concerned  this  question  of  age,  she  was  like  a  man, 
and  so  in  fact  she  was  in  some  other  ways.  She 
would  tell  any  one  how  old  she  was.  She  once  in- 
formed Mr.  de  Lancey  that  she  was  so  much  more  of 
a  man  tlian  any  British  officer  she  knew  that  she  did 
not  see  how  she  could  decentlv  maiTv  anv  of  them. 

I  think  it  was  about  this  time  that  I  saw  a  little 
scene  which  much  impressed  me,  aiul  which  often  re- 
curs to  my  memory.  We— that  is,  Mr.  Montresor,  and 
my  Aunt  Gainor  and  I— of  a  Saturday  afternoon  rode 
over  by  the  lower  ferry  and  up  Gray's  Lane,  and  so 
to  Mr.  Ilamilton's  country-seat.  "  The  Woodlands," 
as  it  was  oaUod,  stood  on  a  hill  amid  many  beautiful 
trees  and  foreign  shi-ul>s  and  flowers.  Below  it  ran 
the  quiet  Schuylkill,  and  beyond,  above  the  gover- 
nor's woods,  could  be  seen  far  away  Dr.  Kearsley's 
fine  spire  of  Christ  Church.  No  better  did  Master 
Wren  himself  ever  contrive,  or  more  proportioned  to 
the  edifice  })eneath  it. 

On  the  porch  were  Mr.  Ilainilton  and  Mrs.  Penn, 
with  .saucy  gray  eyes,  and  I\Irs.  Ferguson.  A  slim 
young  girl,  Rebecca  Franks,  was  teasing  a  cat.  She 
teased  some  one  nil  her  days,  and  did  it  merrily,  and 
not  unkindly.    She  was  Uttle  and  very  pretty,  with  a 


^6        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

dark  skin.  Did  she  di'eam  she  should  marry  a  Brit- 
ish soldier — a  baronet  and  general — and  end  her 
days  in  London  well  on  in  the  century  yet  to  come  1 

Andi'ew  Allen,  whose  lather,  the  chief  justice, 
took  his  wife,  Margaret,  from  this  house,  sat  on  the 
steps  near  Miss  Franks,  and  beside  her  little  Peggy 
Shippen,  who  already  gave  promise  of  the  beauty 
which  won  for  her  so  pitiful  a  hfe.  Nothing  in 
this  garden  of  gay  women  and  flowers  foretold  the 
tragedy  of  West  Point.  I  think  of  it  now  with  sad 
wonder. 

In  one  or  another  way  these  people  became  known 
in  our  annals.  Most  of  them  were  of  the  more  exclu- 
sive party  known  as  the  governor's  set,  and  belonged 
to  the  Church  of  England.  With  the  Galloways, 
Cadwaladers,  Willings,  Shippens,  Rawles,  and  others, 
they  formed  a  more  or  less  distinct  society,  affecting 
London  ways,  dining  at  the  extreme  hour  of  four, 
loving  cards,  the  dance,  fox-hunting,  and  to  see  a 
main  of  game-cocks.  Among  them— not  of  them— 
came  and  went  certain  of  what  were  called  ''gen- 
teel" Quakers— Morrises,  Pembertons,  Whartons, 
and  Logans.  They  had  races  too,— that  is,  the  gov- 
ernor's set,— and  one  of  my  delights  was,  on  the  way 
to  the  academy,  to  stop  in  Third  street,  above  Chest- 
nut, and  see  the  race-horses  in  the  Widow  Nichols's 
stables  at  the  sign  of  the  Indian  Queen. 

But  I  have  left  the  laughter  of  the  last  century 
echoing  among  the  columns  of  Andrew  Hamilton's 
home.  The  guests  were  made  welcome,  and  had  a  dish 
of  tea  or  a  glass  of  punch ;  and  those  desiring  no  more 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         57 

bohea  set  a  spoon  across  the  cup.  and  fell  into  groups. 
My  aunt  opened  the  velvet  bag  which  hung  at  her 
waist,  to  pay  Mi-s.  Ferguson  n  small  gambling  debt 
of  the  night  before. 

''  Ah,  here  !  *'  she  cried  gaily,  "  Mr.  Montresor,  this 
is  for  you.  One  of  Mr.  Grenville's  st-tmips ;  I  kept 
two.  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  them  from  Master 
Hughes,  tlie  stamp  officer— a  great  cimosity.  You 
shall  have  one." 

Mr.  Montresor  bowed.  "  I  will  keep  it,"  he  said, 
"until  it  comes  into  use  again." 

"That  will  be  never,''  said  Andrew  Allen,  turning. 

"  Never !  "  repeated  Miss  Wynne.  "  Let  us  hope, 
sir,  it  may  be  a  lesson  to  all  future  ministers." 

"A  man  was  wanted  in  New  York  in  place  of  Mr. 
Gage,"  cried  Mrs.  Ferguson.  "  As  to  those  New  Eng- 
land Puritans,  they  were  in  rebellion  before  they 
came  over,  and  have  been  ever  since." 

"  And  what  of  New  York,  and  this  town,  and  Vir- 
ginia f ''  said  my  Aunt  Gainor,  with  her  great  nose 
well  up. 

"I  would  have  ])ut  an  end  to  tlieir  disloval  wavs, 
one  and  all,"  cried  ]\Irs.  Ferguson. 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  ]\Ir.  Galloway,  "  that  the  crown 
should  be  so  thwai-ted.  What  people  have  more  rea- 
son to  be  contented?" 

"  Contented  !"  said  Miss  Wynne.  "  Already  they 
talk  of  taxes  in  whicli  we  are  to  have  no  voice.  Con- 
tented !  and  not  a  ship  dare  trade  with  France.  It 
amazes  me  that  there  is  a  man  in  the  plantations  to 
bit  quiet  under  it." 


58         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"I  am  of  your  opinion,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Mao- 
pherson,  ''and  I  might  go  still  further," 

"  They  consider  us  as  mere  colonials,  and  we  may 
not  so  much  as  have  a  bishop  of  our  own.  I  would 
I  had  my  way,  su'." 

"And  what  would  you  do.  Mistress  Wynne?" 
asked  Mr.  Chew. 

"  I  would  say,  '  Mr.  Attorney-General,  give  us  the 
same  liberty  all  the  English  have,  to  go  and  come  on 
the  free  seas ! ' " 

"  And  if  not  ? "  said  Montresor,  smiling. 

"And  if  not,"  she  returned,  "then — "and  she 
touched  the  sword  at  his  side.  I  wondered  to  see 
how  resolute  she  looked. 

The  captain  smiled.  "I  hope  you  will  not  com- 
mand a  regiment,  madam." 

"  Would  to  God  I  could !  " 

"I  should  run,"  he  cried,  laughing.  And  thus 
pleasantly  ended  a  talk  which  was  becoming  bitter 
to  many  of  this  gay  company. 

Destiny  was  already  sharpening  the  sword  we  were 
soon  to  di'aw,  and  of  those  who  met  and  laughed  that 
day  there  were  sons  who  were  to  be  set  against 
fathers,  and  brothers  whom  war  was  to  find  in  hos- 
tile ranks,  A  j'^oung  fellow  of  my  age,  the  son  of 
Mr,  Macpherson,  sat  below  us  on  the  steps  with  the 
girls.  He  was  to  leave  his  young  life  on  the  bastion 
at  Quebec,  and,  for  myself,  how  little  did  I  dream  of 
what  I  should  get  out  of  the  devil-pot  of  war  which 
was  beginning  to  simmer ! 

Very  soon  I  was  sent  with  Rebecca  Franks  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        59 

Miss  Chew  to  srather  flowei*s.  Miss  Franks  e\adently 
despised  my  youth,  aud  between  the  two  little  nudds 
1,  being  unused  to  girls,  had  not  a  pleasant  time,  and 
was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  porch,  whei*e  we  stood 
silent  until  bidden  to  be  seated,  upon  which  the  girls 
curtseyed  and  I  bowed,  and  then  sat  down  to  eat 
cakes  and  drink  syllabub. 

At  last  my  aunt  put  on  her  safeguard  petticoat, 
the  horses  came,  and  we  rode  awav.  For  a  while  she 
was  silent,  answering  the  captain  in  monosyllables ; 
but  just  beyond  the  ferry  his  horse  cast  a  shoe,  and 
went  so  lame  that  the  oflficer  must  needs  return  to 
Woodlands  leading  him,  there  to  ask  a  new  mount 

For  yet  a  while  my  aunt  rode  on  without  a  word, 
but  presently  began  to  rally  me  as  to  Miss  Chew. 
I  had  to  confess  I  cared  not  for  her  or  the  other,  or, 
indeed,  for  maids  at  all. 

"  It  will  come,"  said  slie.  "  Oh,  it  will  come  soon 
enough.  Peggy  Chew  has  the  better  manners.  Aud, 
by  the  way,  sir,  when  you  bow,  keep  your  back 
straight.  !Mr.  Montresor  has  a  pretty  way  of  it. 
Observe  him,  Hugh.  But  he  is  a  fool,  and  so  are 
the  rest :  and  as  for  Bessy  Ferguson,  I  should  like  to 
lay  a  whip  over  her  back  like  that,"  and  she  hit  my 
horse  sharply,  \K>or  thing,  so  that  I  lost  a  stirrup 
and  came  near  to  falling. 

Wlien  the  beast  got  (luiet  I  asked  why  these  nice 
people,  who  had  sucli  pleasant  ways,  were  all  fools. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  There  are  many  and 
constant  causes  of  trouble  between  us  and  the  king. 
When  one  ends,  like  this  IStamp  Act,  another  is 


6o        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

hatched.  It  was  the  best  of  us  who  left  England, 
and  we  are  trained  to  rely  on  ourselves,  and  have 
no  need  of  England.  You  mil  live  to  see  dark  days, 
Hugh — just  what,  God  alone  can  tell ;  but  you  wiU 
live  to  see  them,  and  your  life  will  have  to  answer 
some  questions.  This  may  seem  strange  to  you,  my 
lad,  but  it  will  come." 

What  would  come  I  knew  not.  She  said  no  more, 
but  rode  homeward  at  speed,  as  she  Hked  best  to  do. 

Thus  time  went  by,  until  I  was  full  sixteen,  having 
been  at  the  college  a  year  later  than  was  usual.  I 
had  few  battles  to  fight,  and  contrived  to  keep  these 
to  myself,  or  to  get  patched  up  at  my  Aunt  Wynne's, 
who  delighted  to  hear  of  these  conflicts,  and  always 
gave  me  a  shilling  to  heal  my  wounds.  My  dear, 
fair-haired  Jack,  Aunt  Gainor  thought  a  girl-boy, 
and  fit  only  to  seR  goods,  or,  at  best,  to  become  a 
preacher.     His  father  she  used  and  disliked. 

Meanwhile  we  had  been  through  Horace  and 
Cicero,— and  Ovid  for  our  moral  improvement,  I 
suppose,— with  Virgil  and  SaUust,  and  at  last  Ceesar, 
whom  alone  of  them  all  I  liked.  Indeed,  Jack  and 
I  built  over  a  brook  in  my  Aunt  Gainor's  garden  at 
Chestnut  Hill  a  fair  model  of  Caesar's  great  bridge 
over  the  Rhine.  This  admired  product  of  our  in- 
genuity was  much  praised  by  Captain  Montresor, 
who  was  well  aware  of  my  aunt's  weakness  for  a 
certain  young  person. 

My  father's  decisions  came  always  without  warn- 
mg.  In  the  fall  of  1769  I  was  just  gone  back  to  the 
academy,  and  put  to  work  at  mathematics  and  some 


Huirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        61 

Greek  under  James  Wilson,  at  that  period  one  of  the 
tutors,  and  some  time  later  an  associate  judge  of 
the  Supreme  Court.  This  great  statesman  and  law- 
yer of  after-days  was  a  most  delightful  teacher.  He 
took  a  fancy  to  my  Jack,  and,  as  we  were  insepa- 
ra))lc,  put  up  with  my  tlip])ancy  and  deficient  scholar- 
ship. Jack's  diary  says  otherwise,  and  that  he  saw  in 
me  that  which,  well  used,  miglit  nifike  of  me  a  man 
of  distinction.  At  all  events,  he  liked  well  to  walk 
with  us  on  a  Saturday,  or  to  go  in  my  boat,  which 
was  for  us  a  great  honour.  My  father  a])i)roved  of 
James  Wilson,  and  liked  him  on  the  hoUdayto  shai*e 
our  two-o'clock  dinner.  Then,  and  then  only,  did  I 
understand  the  rigour  and  obstinacy  of  my  father's 
opinions,  for  they  ofttimes  fell  into  debate  as  to  the 
right  of  the  crown  to  tax  us  without  representation. 
Mr.  Wilson  said  many  towns  in  England  had  no 
voice  in  Parliament,  and  that,  if  once  the  crown 
yielded  the  principle  we  stood  on,  it  would  change 
the  whole  political  condition  in  the  mother-land; 
and  this  the  king  would  never  agi-ee  to  see.  Mr. 
Wilson  thought  we  had  been  foolish  to  say,  as 
many  did,  that,  while  we  would  have  no  internal 
ta.\es,  we  would  submit  to  a  tax  on  imports.  This  he 
considered  even  worse.  My  father  was  for  obedience 
and  non-resistance,  and  could  not  see  that  we  were 
fighting  a  battle  for  the  hberty  of  all  Englishmen. 
He  simply  repeated  his  opinions,  and  was  but  a  child 
in  the  hands  of  this  clear-headed  thinker.  My  father 
might  well  have  feared  for  the  effect  of  ^Ir.  Wilson's 
views  on  a  lad  of  my  age,  in  whose  mind  he  opened 


62        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

vistas  of  thought  far  in  advance  of  those  which,  with- 
out him,  I  should  ever  have  seen. 

John  Wynne  was,  however,  too  habitually  accus- 
tomed to  implicit  obedience  to  dream  of  danger,  and 
thus  were  early  sown  in  my  mind  the  seeds  of  future 
action,  with  some  doubt  as  to  my  father's  ability  to 
cope  with  a  man  like  oui'  tutor,  who  considerately 
weighed  my  father's  sentiments  (they  were  hardly 
opinions),  and  so  easily  and  courteously  disposed  of 
them  that  these  logical  defeats  were  clear  even  to  us 
boys. 

Our  school  relations  with  this  gentleman  were 
abruptly  broken.  One  day,  in  late  October  of  1769, 
we  went  on  a  long  walk  through  the  proprietaiy's 
woods,  gathering  for  my  mother  boughs  of  the  many- 
tinted  leaves  of  autumn.  These  branches  she  liked 
to  set  in  jars  of  water  in  the  room  where  we  sat,  so 
that  it  might  be  gay  with  the  lovely  colours  she  so 
much  enjoyed.  As  we  entered  the  forest  about 
Eighth  street  Mr.  Wilson  joined  us,  and  went  along, 
chatting  agreeably  with  my  mother.  Presently  he 
said  to  me :  "I  have  just  left  your  father  with  Mr. 
Pemberton,  talking  about  some  depredations  in  Mr. 
Penn's  woods.  He  tells  me  you  boys  are  to  leave 
school,  but  for  what  I  do  not  know.     I  am  sorry." 

Jack  and  1  had  of  late  expected  this,  and  I,  for 
one,  was  not  grieved,  but  my  friend  was  less  well 
pleased. 

We  strolled  acrcss  to  the  Schuylkill,  and  there, 
sitting  down,  amused  ourselves  with  making  a  little 
crown  of  twisted  twigs  and  leaves  of  the  red  and  yel- 


Huirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        67 

low  maples.  This  we  set  merrily  on  my  mother's  gray 
beaver,  while  3Ir.  Wilsou  declared  it  most  becoming. 
•Just  tlien  Frieud  Pemberton  and  my  father  came 
upon  us,  and,  as  usual  when  the  latter  appeai*ed,  our 
laughter  ceased. 

"  I  shall  want  thee  this  afternoon,  Hugh,"  he  said. 
"And  what  foohslmess  is  tJiis  on  thy  head,  mfe? 
Art  thou  going  home  in  this  guise?" 

"  It  seems  au  innocent  prettiness,"  said  Pemberton, 
while  my  mother,  in  no  wise  dismayed,  looked  up 
with  her  big  blue  eyes. 

**  Thou  wilt  always  be  a  child,"  said  my  father. 

"  Je  Vespere,"  said  the  mother;  "must  I  be  put  in 
a  corner?  The  ban  Dieu  hath  just  changed  the 
forest  fiishions.  I  wonder  is  He  a  Quaker,  Friend 
Pemberton?" 

"Thou  hast  ever  a  neat  answer,"  said  the  gentle 
old  man.     "  Come,  John,  we  are  not  yet  done." 

jNIy  father  said  no  more,  and  we  boys  were  stUl  as 
mice.  We  went  homeward  with  our  mirth  quite  at 
au  end,  Jack  and  Wilson  leaving  us  at  Fom*th  street. 

In  the  afti^rnoon  about  six— for  an  hour  had  been 
named— I  saw  my  aunt's  chaise  at  the  door.  I  knew 
at  once  that  something  unusual  was  in  store,  for 
Mistress  Wynne  rart'ly  came  hither  except  to  see  my 
mother,  and  tht-n  always  in  tlie  forenoon.  Moreover, 
I  noticed  mv  fatlier  at  the  window,  and  never  had  I 
known  him  to  retm'u  so  early.  When  I  went  in  he 
said  at  once : 

"  I  have  been  telling  thy  aunt  of  my  uitentiou  in 
regard  to  thee." 


64         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

'  '  .  ■■  ■  I.I       ..    y 

"  And  I  utterly  disapprove  of  it,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.  *'  I  desire  that  thou  shalt  enter  as 
one  of  my  clerks ;  but  first  it  is  my  will  that,  as  the 
great  and  good  proprietary  decreed,  thou  shouldst 
acquire  some  mechanic  trade ;  I  care  not  what." 

I  was  silent ;  I  did  not  like  it.  Even  far  later,  cer- 
tain of  the  stricter  Friends  adhered  to  a  rule  which 
was  once  useful,  but  was  now  no  longer  held  to  be  of 
imperative  force. 

''I  would  suggest  shoemaking,"  said  my  Aunt 
Gainor,  scornfully,  "or  tailoring." 

"  I  beg  of  thee,  Gainor,"  said  my  mother,  "  not  to 
discontent  the  lad." 

"  In  this  matter,"  returned  my  father,  "  I  will  not 
be  thwarted.  I  asked  thee  to  come  hither,  not  to 
ridicule  a  sensible  decision,  but  to  consult  upon  it." 

"  You  have  had  all  my  wisdom,"  said  the  lady. 
"  I  had  thought  to  ask  my  friend,  CharlesTownshend, 
for  a  pair  of  colours ;  but  now  that  troops  are  sent  to 
Boston  to  override  all  reason,  I  doubt  it.  Do  as  you 
will  with  the  boy.     I  wash  my  hands  of  him." 

This  was  by  no  means  my  father's  intention.  I 
saw  his  face  set  in  an  expression  I  well  knew ;  but 
my  mother  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and,  with  what 
must  have  been  a  great  effort,  he  controlled  his 
anger,  and  said  coldly :  "  I  have  talked  this  over  with 
thy  friend,  Joseph  Warder,  and  he  desired  that  his 
son  should  share  in  my  decision  as  to  Hugh.  Talk 
to  him,  Gainor." 

"  I  do  not  take  counsel  with  my  agent,  John.  He 
does  as  I  bid  him.     I  could  shift  his  opinions  at  a 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        65 

word.  He  is  a  Toiy  to-day,  and  a  Whig  to-raorrow, 
and  anything  to  anybody.  Why  do  you  talk  such 
nonsense  to  me  ?  Let  me  tell  you  that  he  has  ah'eady 
been  to  iii^k  me  what  I  think  of  it.  He  feels  some 
doubt,  poor  man.  Indeed,  he  is  disposed  to  consider. 
Bother  !  what  does  it  matter  what  he  considers  ?  " 

"  If  he  has  changed  his  mind  I  have  not.  Joseph 
hath  ever  a  coat  of  manv  colours." 

'•  I  shall  tell  him,"'  she  cried,  laughing.  The  Quaker 
rule  of  repression  and  non-resistance  by  no  means 
forbade  the  use  of  the  brutal  bludgeon  of  sarcasm, 
as  many  a  debate  in  Meeting  could  testify.  She  rose 
as  she  spoke,  and  my  mother  said  gently : 

"  Thou  wilt  not  tell  him,  Gainor." 

Meanwhile  I  stood  amazed  at  a  talk  which  so 
deeply  concerned  me. 

"  Shall  it  be  a  smitliy  ? "  said  my  father. 

"  Oh,  what  you  like.  The  Wynnes  ai-e  well  down 
in  the  world— trade,  horseshoeing.     Good  evening." 

"  Gainor !  Gainor  !  "  cried  my  mother ;  but  she  was 
gone  in  ^vTath,  and  out  of  the  house. 

'•  Thou  wilt  leave  the  academy.  I  have  already 
arranged  with  Lowry,  in  South  street,  to  take  thee. 
Three  months  shoukl  answer." 

To  this  I  said,  "  Yes,  yes,"  and  went  away  but  little 
pleased,  my  mother  saying,  "  It  is  only  for  a  time, 
my  son." 


[JAYS  my  friend  Jack  in  his  journal: 
"  The  bovs  were  in  these  times  keen 
politicians  whenever  any  unusual  event 
occurred, and  the  great  pot  was  like  soon 
^  to  boil  furiously,  and  scald  the  cooks. 
Charles  Townshend's  ministry  w^as  long-  over.  The 
Stamp  Act  had  come  and  gone.  The  Non-importa- 
tion Agreement  had  been  signed  even  by  men  like 
Andrew  Allen  and  Mr.  Penn.  Lord  North,  a  gentle 
and  obstinate  person,  was  minister.  The  Lord  Hills- 
borough, a  man  after  the  king's  heart,  had  the  colo- 
nial office.  The  troops  had  landed  in  Boston,  and 
the  letters  of  Dickinson  and  Vindex  had  fanned 
the  embers  of  discontent  into  flame. 

"  Thi'ough  it  all  we  boys  contrived  to  know  eve  y- 
thing  that  was  happening.  I  had  a  sense  of  fear  about 
it,  but  to  Hugh  I  think  it  was  delightful,  A  fire,  a  mob, 
confusion,  and  disorder  appeal  to  most  boys'  minds 
as  desirable.  My  father  was  terrified  at  the  disturb- 
ance of  commerce,  and  the  angry  words  which  began 
to  be  heard.  Mr.  John  Wynne  very  coolly  ad- 
justed his  affairs,  as  I  have  heard,  and  settled  down 
with  the  Friends,  such  as  Wain  and  Shoemaker  and 

66 


Iluirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        67 

Pembei-tou  and  the  rest,  to  accept  whatever  the  king 
might  decree." 

Jack  and  I  talked  it  all  over  in  wild  boy  fashion, 
and  went  eveiy  day  at  six  in  the  morning  to  Lowry's 
on  South  street  At  fii-st  we  both  hated  the  work, 
but  this  did  not  last ;  and,  once  we  were  used  to 
it,  the  business  had  for  fellows  like  ourselves  a 
cei-tiiin  chju-m.  The  horses  we  learned  to  know  and 
undei-stand.  Theii*  o'vvnei's  were  of  a  class  with  which 
in  those  days  it  was  not  thought  seemly  for  persons 
of  our  degi*ee  to  be  familiar ;  here  it  was  unavoid- 
able, and  I  soon  learned  how  deep  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people  was  the  determination  to  resist  the  author- 
ity of  the  crown. 

The  lads  we  knew  of  the  gay  set  used  to  come  and 
laugh  at  us,  as  we  plied  the  hummer  or  blew  tlie 
bellows ;  and  one  day  Miss  Franks  and  Miss  Peggy 
Chew,  and  I  think  Miss  Shippen,  stood  awhile  with- 
out the  forge,  making  verj'  merry.  Jack  got  red  in 
the  face,  but  I  was  angry,  worked  on  doggedly,  and 
said  nothing.  At  last  I  thrashed  soundly  one  Master 
Galloway,  who  called  me  a  horse-cobbler,  and  after 
that  no  more  trouble. 

I  became  strong  and  muscular  as  the  work  went  on, 
and  got  to  like  our  master,  who  was  all  for  liberty, 
and  sang  as  he  struck,  and  taught  me  much  that  was 
u-seful  as  to  the  management  of  horses,  so  that  I 
was  not  long  unhappy.  My  father,  pleased  at  my 
<liligence,  once  said  to  me  that  I  seemed  to  be  at- 
tentive to  the  business  in  hand ;  and,  as  far  as  I 
remember,  this  was  the  only  time  in  my  life  that 


68         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


he  ever  gave  me  a  word  of  even  the  mildest  com- 
mendation. 

It  was  what  Jack  most  needed.  His  slight, 
graceful  figure  filled  out  and  became  very  straight, 
losing  a  stoop  it  had,  so  that  he  grew  to  be  a  well- 
built,  active  young  f  eUow,  rosy,  and  quite  too  pretty, 
with  his  blond  locks.  After  our  thu*d  month  began, 
Lowry  man'ied  a  widow,  and  moved  away  to  her  farm 
up  the  country  and  beyond  the  Blue  Bell  tavern, 
where  he  carried  on  his  business,  and  where  he  was  to 
appear  again  to  me  at  a  time  when  I  sorely  needed 
him.  It  was  to  be  another  instance  of  how  a  greater 
Master  ovemiles  our  lives  for  good. 

Just  after  we  had  heard  the  news  of  the  widow, 
my  father  came  into  the  forge  one  day  with  Joseph 
Warder.  He  stood  and  watched  me  shoe  a  horse,  and 
asked  Lowry  if  I  had  learned  the  business.  When 
he  replied  that  we  both  might  become  more  expert, 
but  that  we  could  make  nails,  and  shoe  fairly  well, 
my  father  said : 

^'  Take  off  these  aprons,  and  go  home.  There  will 
be  other  work  for  both  of  you." 

We  were  glad  enough  to  obey,  and,  dropping  our 
leathern  aprons,  thus  ended  our  apprenticeship. 
Next  week  Tom  Lowry,  our  master,  appeared  with 
a  fine  beaver  for  me,  saying,  as  I  knew,  that  it  was 
tlie  custom  to  give  an  apprentice  a  beaver  when  his 
time  was  up,  and  that  he  had  never  been  better 
served  by  any. 

My  Aunt  Gainor  kept  away  all  this  time,  and 
made  it  clear  that  she  did  not  wish  my  black  hands 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         69 

at  her  table.  My  father,  no  doubt,  felt  sure  that,  so 
far  as  I  was  eoueerued,  .<be  would  soon  or  lat^  relent. 
This,  in  faet,  came  about  in  midwinter,  upon  her 
asking  mv  mother  to  send  me  to  see  her.  My  father 
obsen'ed  that  he  had  no  will  to  make  quarrels,  or 
to  keep  them  alive.  My  mother  smiled  demurely, 
knowing  him  as  none  other  did,  and  bade  me  go 
with  her. 

In  her  own  room  slie  had  laid  out  on  the  bed  a 
brown  eoat  of  velveteen,  with  breeches  to  matt'li,  and 
stockings  with  brown  clocks,  and  also  a  brown  beaver, 
the  back  looped  up,  all  of  which  slie  had,  with  sweet 
craftiness,  provided,  that  I  might  appear  well  before 
my  Aunt  Gainor. 

"  Thou  wilt  fight  no  one  on  the  way,  Hugli,  And 
now,  what  shall  be  done  with  his  hands,  so  rough  and 
so  liard  f  Scrub  them  well.  Tell  Gainor  I  luive  two 
new  lilies  for  her,  just  come  from  Jamaica.  Bulbs 
they  ai*e;  I  will  care  for  them  in  the  cellar.  I  was 
near  to  forget  the  marmalade  of  ])itter  orange.  She 
must  .send  ;  I  cannot  trust  Tom.  Thv  father  had  him 
whipped  at  tlie  jail  yesterday,  and  he  is  sulky.  Put 
on  thy  clothes,  and  I  will  come  again  to  see  how' 
they  fit  thee." 

In  a  little  while  she  was  back  again,  declaring  I 
lo<^)ked  a  lord,  and  that  if  she  were  a  girl  she  should 
fall  in  love  with  me,  and  then— "But  I  shall  never 
let  any  woman  but  me  ki.ss  thee.  I  sliall  be  jealous. 
And  now,  sir.  a  l)ow.  That  was  better.  Now,  as  I 
curt.sey,  it  is  bad  manners  to  have  it  over  before  I  am 
fully  risen.     Then  it  is  permitted  that  les  beaitx  yeiu 


70         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

se  rencontrent.  Comme  ra.  Ca  va  Men.  That  is  bet- 
ter done." 

"  Wliat  vanities  are  these  1 "  said  my  father  at  the 
door  she  had  left  open. 

She  was  nowise  alarmed.  "  Come  in,  John,"  she 
cried.  "He  does  not  yet  bow  as  well  as  thou.  It 
would  crack  some  Quaker  backs,  I  think.  I  can  hear 
Friend  Wain's  joints  creak  when  he  gets  up." 

"  Nonsense,  wife !     Thou  art  a  child  to  this  day." 

"  Then  kiss  me,  mon  pere.''^  And  she  ran  to  him 
and  stood  on  tiptoe,  so  engaging  and  so  pretty  that  he 
could  not  help  but  lift  up  her  slight  figure,  and,  kiss- 
ing her,  set  her  down.  It  was  a  moment  of  rare  ten- 
derness.   Would  I  had  known  or  seen  more  like  it ! 

"  Thou  wilt  ruin  him,  wife." 

As  I  ran  down  the  garden  she  called  after  me, 
"Do  not  thou  forget  to  kiss  her  hand.  To-morrow 
will  come  the  warehouse ;  but  take  the  sweets  of  life 
as  they  offer.  Adieu."  She  stood  to  watch  me,  all 
her  dear  heart  in  her  eyes,  something  pure,  and,  as 
it  were,  virginal  in  her  look.     God  rest  her  soul ! 

It  was  late  when  I  got  to  my  aunt's,  somewhere 
about  eight,  and  the  hum  of  voices  warned  me  of  her 
having  company.  As  I  entered  she  rose,  expecting 
an  older  guest,  and,  as  I  had  been  bid,  I  bowed  low 
and  touched  her  hand  with  my  lips,  as  I  said : 

"  Dear  Aunt  Gainor,  it  has  been  so  long !  "  I  could 
have  said  nothing  better.     She  laughed. 

"  Here  is  my  nephew,  Mr.  Etheriugton  "—this  to  an 
English  major ;  "  and,  Captain  Wallace  of  the  king's 
navy,  my  nephew." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        71 

Tlic  capt<aiu  was  a  rough,  boisterous  sailor,  and  thfl 
other  a  miui  with  too  much  nianuer,  and,  as  I  heard 
hiter,  risen  from  the  ranks. 

He  sahited  me  with  a  lively  thump  on  the  shoul- 
der, which  I  did  not  relish.  "  Zounds  !  sir,  but  you 
are  a  stout  young  Quaker !  " 

*'  We  are  most  of  us  Quakei"s  here,  captain,"  said  a 
quiet  gentleman,  who  saw,  I  fancy,  by  my  face  that 
this  rude  greeting  was  unpleasant  to  me. 

"  How  are  you,  Hugh?"  This  was  the  Master 
of  the  Rolls,  Mr.  John  Morris.  Then  my  aunt  said, 
"  Go  and  speak  to  the  ladies— you  know  them  ; "  and 
as  I  turned  aside,  ''  I  beg  pardon,  Sir  William ;  this 
is  my  noj)hew,  Hugh  Wynne."  This  was  addressed 
to  a  liigli-coloured  personage  in  yellow  velvet  with 
gold  buttons,  and  a  white  flowered  waistcoat,  and 
with  his  queue  in  a  fine  hair-net. 

"  Tills  Is  Sir  William  Draper,  Hugh ;  he  who  took 
Manilla,  as  you  must  know."  I  did  not,  nor  did  I 
know  until  later  that  he  was  one  of  the  victims  of 
the  sharp  pen  of  Junius,  with  whom,  for  the  sake  of 
the  Marquis  of  Granl)y,  he  had  rashly  ventured  to 
tilt.  The  famous  soldier  smiled  as  I  stiluted  him 
with  my  l^est  bow. 

"  Fine  food  for  powder.  Mistress  Wynne,  and  al- 
ready sixteen  !  I  was  in  serv'ice  three  years  earlier. 
Should  he  wi.sh  for  an  ensign's  commission,  I  am  at 
your  sen-ice." 

"Ah,  Sir  William,  that  might  have  been,  a  year  or 
80  ago,  but  no\^  he  may  have  to  fight  General  Gage.** 

"  The  gods  forbid  !     Oui*  poor  general !  " 


72        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


'^'Mistress  Wynne  is  a  rank  Whig,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Ferguson,  "She  reads  Dickinson's  'Farmer's  Let- 
ters/ and  all  the  wicked  treason  of  that  man  Adams." 

"  A  low  demagogue  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Galloway.  "  I 
hear  there  have  been  disturbances  in  Boston,  and 
that  because  one  James  Otis  has  been  beaten  by  our 
officers,  and  because  our  bands  play  '  Yankee  Doodle ' 
on  Sundays  in  front  of  the  churches— I  beg  pardon, 
the  meetings— Mr.  Robinson,  the  king's  collector,  has 
had  to  pay  and  apologise.     Most  shameful  it  is !  " 

"  I  should  take  short  measures,"  said  the  sailor. 

"And  I,"  cried  Etherington,  "I  have  just  come 
from  Virginia,  but  not  a  recruit  could  I  get.  It  is 
like  a  nest  of  ants  in  a  turmoil,  and  the  worst  of 
all  are  the  officers  who  served  in  the  French  war. 
There  is,  too,  a  noisy  talker,  Patrick  Henry,  and  a 
Mr.  Washington." 

"  I  think  it  was  he  who  saved  the  wreck  of  the  king's 
army  under  Mr.  Braddock,"  said  my  aunt.  "I  can 
remember  how  they  all  looked.  Not  a  wig  among 
them.  The  lodges  must  have  been  full  of  them,  but 
their  legs  saved  their  scalps." 

"Is  it  for  this  they  caU  them  wigwams?"  cries 
naughty  Miss  Chew. 

"  Fie !  fie ! "  says  her  mamma,  while  my  aunt 
laughed  merrily. 

"A  mere  Potomac  planter,"  said  Etherington,  "  'pon 
my  soul— and  with  such  airs,  as  if  they  were  gentle- 
men of  the  line." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  my  aunt,  "  they  had  not  had  your 
opportunities  of  knowing  all  grades  of  the  service." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        'ji^ 

The  major  Hushed.  "  I  have  served  the  king  as 
well  as  I  know  how,  and  I  trust,  madam,  I  shjiU  have 
tlie  pleasure  to  aid  in  the  punishment  of  some  of 
these  insolent  rebels." 

"  ^lay  you  be  there  to  see,  Hugh,"  said  my  aunt, 
laughing. 

Willing  to  make  a  diversion,  Mrs.  Chew  said,  "  Let 
US  defeat  these  Tories  at  the  card-table,  Gainor." 

"Witli  all  my  heart,"  said  my  aunt,  glad  of  this 
turn  in  the  talk. 

"  Come  and  give  me  luck,  Hugh,"  said  Mrs.  Fergu- 
son. "  "WTiat  a  big  fellow  you  are  !  Your  aunt  must 
find  vou  ruffles  soon,  and  a  steenku-k." 

With  this  I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  wondered  to 
see  how  eager  and  interested  they  all  became,  and 
how  the  guineas  and  gold  half-joes  passed  from  one 
to  another,  wliile  the  gay  Mrs.  Ferguson,  who  was  at 
tlie  table  with  Mrs.  Penn,  Captain  Wallace,  and  my 
aunt,  gave  me  my  fii'st  lesson  in  this  form  of  in- 
dustry. 

A  little  later  there  was  tea,  chocolate,  and  rusks, 
with  punch  for  the  men ;  and  Dr.  Sliippcn  came  in, 
and  the  great  Dr.  Kush,  with  his  delicate,  clean-cut 
face  under  a  full  wig.  Dr.  Shippen  was  full  of  talk 
about  some  fine  game-cocks,  and  others  were  busy 
with  the  spring  races  in  Centre  Square. 

You  may  be  sure  I  kept  my  ears  open  to  hear  wliat 
all  these  great  men  said.  I  chanced  to  heai-  Dr.  Rush 
deep  in  tiilk  behind  the  punch-tnlile  with  a  handsome 
young  man,  Dr.  Morgan,  newly  come  from  London. 

Dr.  Rush  said,  "  I  have  news  to-day,  in  a  letter  fiom 


74        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Mr.  Adams,  of  things  being  unendurable.  He  is  bold 
enough  to  talk  of  separation  from  England ;  but  that 
is  going  far,  too  far." 

"  I  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Morgan.  "  I  saw  Dr. 
Franklin  in  London.  He  advises  conciliation,  and 
not  to  act  with  rash  haste.  These  gentlemen  yon- 
der make  it  difficult." 

"  Yes ;  there  is  no  insolence  like  that  of  the  soldier." 
And  this  was  all  I  heard  or  remember,  for  my  aunt 
bade  me  run  home  and  thank  my  mother,  telling 
me  to  come  again  and  soon. 

The  plot  was  indeed  thickening,  and  even  a  lad 
as  young  as  I  could  scent  peril  in  the  air.  At  home 
I  heard  nothing  of  it.  No  doubt  my  father  read  at 
his  warehouse  the  "  Pennsylvania  Journal,"  or  more 
likely  Galloway's  gazette,  the  "  Chronicle,"  which  was 
rank  Tory,  and  was  suppressed  in  1773.  But  outside 
of  the  house  I  learned  the  news  readily.  Mr.  War- 
der took  papei*s  on  both  sides,  and  also  the  Boston 
"  Packet,"  so  that  Jack  and  I  were  well  informed,  and 
used  to  take  the  gazett.es  when  his  father  had  read 
them,  and  devour  them  safely  in  oui*  boat,  when  by 
rare  chance  I  had  a  holiday. 

And  so  passed  the  years  1770,  1771,  and  1772, 
when  Lord  North  precipitated  the  crisis  by  attempt- 
ing to  control  the  judges  in  Massachusetts,  who  were 
in  future  to  be  paid  by  the  crown,  and  would  thus 
pass  under  its  control.  Adams  now  suggested  com- 
mittees of  correspondence,  and  thus  the  fii'st  step 
toward  united  action  was  taken. 

These  years,  up  to  the  autumn  of  1772,  were  not 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        j^ 

without  influence  on  my  own  life  for  both  good  and 
eWl.  I  was,  of  eoiu'so,  kept  sedulously  at  work  at  our 
business,  and,  thoui^h  liking  it  even  less  tliau  farrieiy, 
leanied  it  well  enough.  It  was  not  without  its  plea- 
sures. Certainly  it  was  au  agreeable  thing  to  know 
the  old  merchant  captains,  and  to  talk  to  their  men 
or  themselves.  The  sea  had  not  lost  its  romance. 
Men  could  remember  Kidd  and  Blackbeard.  In  the 
low-lying  dens  below  Dock  Creek  and  on  King  street, 
were  many,  it  is  to  be  feared,  who  had  seen  the  black 
flag  flying,  and  who  knew  too  weU  the  keys  and 
slioals  of  the  West  Indies.  The  captain  who  put  to 
sea  with  such  sailors  had  need  to  be  resolute  and 
ready.  Ships  went  armed,  and  I  was  amazed  to  see, 
in  the  holds  of  our  own  ships,  carronades,  which  out 
on  the  ocean  were  hoisted  up  and  set  in  place  on  deck ; 
also  cutlasses  and  muskets  in  the  cabin,  and  good 
store  of  pikes.  I  ventured  once  to  ask  my  father  if 
this  were  consistent  with  non-re«istance.  He  replied 
that  ph-ates  were  like  to  wild  beasts,  and  vhat  I  had 
better  attend  to  my  business ;  after  which  I  said  no 
more,  having  food  for  thought. 

These  captains  got  thus  a  noble  training,  were  splen- 
did seamen,  and  n<»t  unused  to  arms  and  danger,  as 
proved  fortunate  in  days  to  come.  Once  I  would 
have  gone  to  the  Madeiras  with  Captain  Biddle,  but 
unluckily  my  mother  prevailed  with  my  father  to 
forbid  it.  It  had  been  better  for  me  had  it  been  de- 
cided otherwi.se,  because  I  w;is  fast  getting  an  edu- 
cation which  did  me  no  good. 

"Indeed,"  says  Jack  later  on  in  his  diary,  "I  was 


76         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

much,  troubled  in  those  seventies  "  (he  means  up  to 
'74,  when  we  were  full  twenty-one)  '^  about  my  friend 
Hugh.  The  town  was  full  of  oflQcers  of  all  grades, 
who  came  and  went,  and  brought  with  them  much 
licence  and  contempt  for  colonists  in  general,  and  a 
silly  way  of  parading  their  own  sentiments  on  all 
occasions.  Gambling,  hard  drinking,  and  all  manner 
of  worse  things  became  common  and  more  openly 
indulged  in.  Neither  here  nor  in  Boston  could  young 
women  walk  about  unattended,  a  new  and  strange 
thing  in  our  quiet  town. 

"  Mistress  Gainor's  house  was  full  of  these  gentle- 
men, whom  she  entertained  with  a  freedom  only 
equalled  by  that  with  which  she  spoke  her  good 
Whig  mind.  The  air  was  full  of  excitement.  Busi- 
ness fell  oif,  and  Hugh  and  I  had  ample  leisure  to 
do  much  as  we  liked. 

"  I  must  honestly  declare  that  I  deserve  no  praise 
for  having  escaped  the  temptations  which  beset 
Hugh.  I  hated  all  excess,  and  suffered  in  body  if  I 
drank  or  ate  more  than  was  wise.  As  regards  worse 
things  than  wine  and  cards,  I  tliink  Miss  Wynne  was 
right  when  she  described  me  as  a  girl-boy;  for  the 
least  rudeness  or  laxity  of  talk  in  women  I  disliked, 
and  as  to  the  mere  modesties  of  the  person,  I  have 
always  been  like  some  well-nurtured  maid. 

"  Thus  it  was  that  when  Hugh,  encouraged  by  his 
aunt,  fell  into  the  company  of  these  loose,  swagger- 
ing captains  and  cornets,  I  had  either  to  give  up 
him,  who  was  unable  to  resist  them,  or  to  share 
in  their  vicious  ways  myself.     It  was  my  personal 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        'jj 

discrust  at  drunkenness  or  loose  societj'  which  saved 
me,  not  any  moral  or  relisxious  safeguards,  although 
I  trust  I  wtU3  not  altogether  without  these  helps.  I 
have  seen  now  and  then  that  to  be  refined  in  tastes 
and  feehngs  is  a  great  aid  to  a  virtuous  life.  Also  I 
have  known  some  who  would  have  been  drunkards 
but  for  theii*  heads  aiul  stoma<.'hs,  which  so  be- 
haved as  to  be  good  substitutes  for  conscience.  It 
is  sometimes  the  body  which  saves  the  soul.  Both 
of  these  helps  I  had,  but  my  dear  Hugh  had  neither. 
He  was  a  great,  strong,  masculine  fellow,  and  if  I 
may  seem  to  have  said  that  he  wanted  refined  feel- 
ings, that  is  not  so,  and  to  him,  who  will  never  read 
these  lines,  and  to  myself,  I  must  apologise." 

I  did  come  to  see  these  pages,  as  you  know.  I 
think  he  meant,  that  with  the  ^\^ne  of  youth  and  at 
times  of  other  vintages,  in  my  veins,  the  strong  pater- 
nal blood,  which  in  my  father  only  a  true,  if  hard, 
reUgion  kept  in  order,  was  too  much  for  me.  If  I 
state  this  awkwardly  it  is  because  aU  excuses  are 
awkward.  Looking  back,  I  wonder  that  I  was  not 
woi-se,  and  that  I  did  not  go  to  the  uttermost  devil. 
I  was  vig<^)rous,  and  had  the  stomach  of  a  temperate 
o.\,  and  a  head  which  made  no  complaints.  The 
morning  after  some  mad  revel  I  could  rise  at  five,  and 
go  out  in  my  boat  and  overboard,  and  then  home  in 
a  glow,  with  a  fine  appetite  for  breakfast ;  and  I  was 
so  big  and  tall  that  I  was  thought  to  be  many  years 
older  than  I  was. 

I  should  have  been  less  able  unwatched  to  go 
down  tliis  ea«v  descent,  had  it  not  been  for  a  train 


7^         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

of  circumstances  whicli  not  only  left  me  freer  than  I 
ought  to  have  been,  but,  in  the  matter  of  money,  made 
it  only  too  possible  for  me  to  hold  my  own  amid 
evil  or  lavish  company.  My  aunt  had  lived  in  Lon- 
don, and  in  a  society  which  had  all  the  charm  of 
breeding,  and  all  the  vices  of  a  period  more  coarse 
than  ours.  She  detested  mv  father's  notions,  and  if 
she  meant  to  win  me  to  her  own  she  took  an  ill  way 
to  do  it.  I  was  presented  to  the  English  officers,  and 
freely  supplied  with  money,  to  which  I  had  been 
quite  unused,  so  long  as  my  father  was  the  only 
source  of  supply.  We  were  out  late  when  I  was 
presumed  to  be  at  my  Aunt  Gainoi-'s ;  and  to  drink 
and  bet,  or  to  see  a  race  or  cock-fight,  or  to  pull 
off  knockers,  or  to  bother  the  ancient  watchmen, 
were  now  some  of  my  most  reputable  amusements. 
I  began  to  be  talked  about  as  a  bit  of  a  rake,  and 
my  Aunt  Gainor  was  not  too  greatly  displeased  ;  she 
would  hear  of  om*  exploits  and  say  "  Fie  !  fie  !  "  and 
then  give  me  more  guineas.  Worse  than  all,  my 
father  was  deep  in  his  business,  lessening  his  ven- 
tures, and  thus  leaving  me  more  time  to  sow  the 
seed  of  idleness.  Everything,  as  I  now  see  it,  com- 
bined to  make  easy  for  me  the  downward  path.  I 
went  along  it  without  the  company  of  Jack  Wardei", 
and  so  we  drew  apart ;  he  would  none  of  it. 

When  my  father  began  to  withdraw  his  capital  my 
mother  was  highly  pleased,  and  more  than  once  in 
my  presence  said  to  him :  "  Wliy,  John,  dost  thou 
strive  for  more  and  more  money  1  Hast  thou  not 
enough  ?    Let  us  give  up  all  this  care  and  go  to  our 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        79 

great  farm  at  Merion,  and  live  as  peaceful  as  our 
cattle."  8he  did  not  reckon  upou  the  force  with 
which  the  habits  of  a  life  bound  my  father  to  his 
business. 

Iremember  that  it wasfaronin  April,  1773, wheumy 
Aunt  Gainor  appeared  one  day  in  my  father's  count- 
ing-house. Hers  was  a  well-known  figure  on  King 
street,  and  even  in  the  unpleasant  region  alongshore 
to  the  south  of  Dock  street.  She  would  dismount, 
leave  her  horse  to  the  groom,  and,  with  a  heavily 
mounted,  silver-topped  whip  in  hand,  and  her  riding- 
petticoat  gathered  up,  would  march  along,  picking 
her  way  tlirough  mud  and  filth.  Here  she  contrived 
to  find  the  queer  china  things  she  desired,  or  in  some 
mysterious  way  she  secured  cordials  and  such  liquors 
as  no  one  else  coidd  get. 

Once  she  took  my  mother  with  her,  and  loaded  her 
with  gods  of  the  Orient  and  fine  China  pongee  sdks. 

'*  But,  Hugh,"  said  the  dear  lady,  "  il  li'est  pas  jws- 
sible  de  vons  la  lUcrire.  Man  Dieu  !  she  can  say  ter- 
rible words,  and  I  have  seen  a  man  who  ventured 
some  rudeness  to  me— no,  no,  nio7i  cJier,  nothing  to 
anger  you ;  //  nvait  peur  de  ceffe  feitnne.  He  was 
afraid  of  her— her  and  her  whip.  He  was  so  alarmed 
that  he  let  her  liave  a  great  china  mandarin  for  a 
mere  nothing.  I  think  he  was  glad  to  see  her  well 
out  of  his  low  tavern." 

"  But  the  man,"  I  urged ;  "  what  did  he  say  to  thee, 
mother?" 

^^  y imports,  mon  fih.  I  did  want  the  mandarin. 
He  nodded  this  way— this  way.   He  M-agged  his  head 


8o         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

as  a  dog  wags  his  tail,  like  Thomas  Scattergood  in 
the  Meeting.  Comme  gd."  She  became  that  man  in  a 
moment,  turning  up  the  edge  of  her  silk  shawl,  and 
nodding  solemnly.  I  screamed  with  laughter.  Ever 
since  I  was  a  child,  despite  my  father's  dislikes,  she 
had  taught  me  French,  and  when  alone  with  me 
liked  me  to  chatter  in  her  mother  language.  In 
fact,  I  learned  it  well. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  I  began  just  now  to 
speak,  my  Aunt  Gainor  entered,  with  a  graver  face 
than  common,  and  I  rising  to  leave  her  with  my 
father,  she  put  her  whip  across  my  breast  as  I  turned,, 
and  said,  "  No ;  I  want  you  to  hear  what  I  have  tc^ 
say." 

'^Wliatisit,  Gainor?" 

"This  business  of  the  ship  'Gaspee'the  Rhode  Isl- 
and men  burned  is  making  trouble  in  the  East.  The 
chief  justice  of  Rhode  Island,  Hopkins,  has  refused 
to  honour  the  order  to  arrest  these  Rhode-Islanders." 

"  Pu-ates !  "  said  my  father. 

"  Pirates,  if  you  like.  We  shall  all  be  pirates  be- 
fore long." 

"Well,  Gainor, is  that  aU  ?  It  does  not  concern  me."' 

"No;  I  have  letters  from  London  which  informi 
me  that  the  Lord  North  is  but  a  poppet,  and  as  the 
king  pulls  the  wires  he  will  dance  to  whatever  tune 
the  king  likes.  He  was  a  nice,  amiable  young  fellow 
when  I  stayed  at  his  father's,  my  Lord  Guilford's, 
and  not  without  learning  and  judgment.  But  for 
the  Exchequer— a  queer  choice,  I  must  say." 

"  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  king  knows  how  to 


HughW^ynne:  Free  Quaker        8 1 

choose  his  ministers.  Thou  knowest  what  I  think, 
Gainor.  Wo  have  but  to  obey  those  whom  the  Lord 
has  set  over  us.  We  ai"e  told  to  render  unto  Cn?sar 
the  things  which  are  Civsai-'s,  and  to  go  our  ways  in 
peace." 

*'The  question  is,  ^Miat  are  Ca?sar's?"  said  my 
aunt.  ^'Shidl  Ca\stu*  judge  always?  I  came  to  tcU 
you  that  it  is  understood  in  Loudon,  although  not 
public,  that  it  is  meant  to  tax  our  tea.  Now  we  do 
not  buy ;  we  smuggle  it  from  Holland ;  but  if  the 
India  Company  should  get  a  drawback  on  tea,  we 
shall  be  forced  to  take  it  for  its  cheapness,  even  with 
the  duty  on  it  of  threepence  a  pound." 

"It  were  but  a  silly  scheme,  Gainor.  I  cannot 
credit  it." 

"  Who  coidd,  John  ?  and  yet  it  is  to  be  tried,  and 
all  for  a  matter  of  a  few  hundred  pounds  a  year.  It 
will  ])e  tried  not  now  or  soon,  but  next  fall  when  the 
tea-ships  come  from  China." 

"  And  if  it  is  to  be  as  thou  art  informed,  what  of 
it?" 

"A  storm— a  tempest  in  a  teapot,"  said  she. 

My  father  stood  still,  deep  in  thought.  He  had 
a  profound  respect  for  the  commercial  sagacity  of 
this  clear-headed  woman.  Moreover,  he  was  sure, 
as  usual,  to  be  asked  to  act  in  Philadelphia  as  a  con- 
signee of  the  India  Company. 

She  seemed  to  see  through  her  brotlier,  as  one  sees 
through  gla.ss.  "You  got  into  trouble  when  the 
stamps  came." 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  thisT" 


82        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"And  again  when  you  would  not  sign  the  Non- 
importation Agreement  in  '68." 

"  WeU  ? " 

"  They  will  ask  you  to  receive  the  tea." 

"  And  I  will  do  it.  How  can  I  refuse  ?  I  should 
lose  all  their  India  trade." 

"  There  will  soon  be  no  trade  to  lose.  You  are,  as 
I  know,  drawing  in  your  capital.  Go  abroad.  Wind 
up  youi"  affairs  in  England ;  do  the  same  in  HoUand. 
Use  all  your  ships  this  summer.  Go  to  Madeira  from 
London.  Buy  freely,  and  pay  at  once  so  as  to  save 
interest ;  it  wiU  rise  fast.  Come  home  in  the  fall  of 
'74  late.  Hold  the  goods,  and,  above  all,  see  that 
in  your  absence  no  consignments  be  taken.  Am  I 
clear,  John?" 

I  heard  her  with  such  amazement  as  was  shared 
by  my  father.  The  boldness  and  sagacity  of  the 
scheme  impressed  a  man  trained  to  skill  in  com- 
merce, and  ever  given  to  coiu'ageous  ventures. 

"  You  must  sail  in  October  or  before ;  you  will 
need  a  year.     No  less  will  do." 

"  Yes— yes." 

I  saw  from  his  look  that  he  was  captured.  He 
walked  to  and  fro,  while  my  Aunt  Gainor  switched 
the  dust  off  her  petticoat  or  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. At  last  she  turned  to  me.  "  What  think  you 
of  it,  Hugh?" 

''Mr.  Wilson  says  we  shall  have  war,  aunt,  and 
Mr.  Attorney-General  Chew  is  of  the  same  opinion. 
I  heard  them  talking  of  it  last  night  at  thy  house.    I ! 
think  the  king's  officers  want  a  war."    I  took  refuge. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        83 

shrewdly,  in  the  notions  of  my  elders.  I  had 
no  wiser  thing  to  say.  "I  myself  do  not  know,"  I 
added. 

'•  How  shoiddst  thou  T "  said  my  father,  shai'ply. 

I  was  silent. 

"And  Avhat  tliink  you,  John?" 

"  What  will  niv  wife  sav,  Gainor  ?  We  have  never 
been  a  month  ajiart." 

'■  Let  me  t^dk  to  her." 

''  Wilt  thou  shiu'e  in  the  venture  ? "  He  was  testing 
the  sincerity  of  her  advice.    "  And  to  what  extent  ? '' 

"Five  thousand  pounds.  You  may  draw  on  me 
from  London,  and  buy  powder  and  muskets,"  she 
added,  with  a  smile. 

"Not  L     Why  dost  thou  talk  such  folly?" 

"Then  Holland  blankets  and  i^ood  cloth.  I  will 
take  them  off  your  hands  at  a  fan-  profit." 

"  I  see  no  objection  to  that." 

My  aunt  gave  me  a  queer  look,  saying,  "  The  poor 
will  need  them.     I  .shall  sell  them  cheap." 

It  was  siugidar  that  I  caught  her  meaning,  while 
my  father,  reflecting  on  the  ventm-e  as  a  whole,  did 
not. 

"  I  will  do  it,"  he  .said. 

"  Then  a  word  more.  Be  careful  here  as  to  delfts. 
Why  not  wind  up  your  business,  and  retire  with 
the  profit  you  will  iiiakef "  It  was  the  same  advice 
my  mother  had  given,  as  I  well  knew. 

"Hast  thou  been  talking  to  my  wife?"  he  said. 

"No,"  slie  replied,  surpri-sed  ;  "may  I?" 

^Yes      As  to  going  out  of  business,  Gainor,  I 


84        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

should  be  but  a  lost  man,  I  am  not  as  weU-to-do 
as  thou  dost  seem  to  think." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  "  cried  my  aunt.  "  I  believe 
Thomas  Willing  is  no  better  off  in  what  you  call  this 
world's  gear,  nor  Franks,  nor  any  of  them.  You  like 
the  game,  and,  after  all,  what  is  it  but  a  kind  of  gam- 
bling? How  do  you  know  what  hands  the  ocean 
holds  ?  Your  ventures  are  no  better  than  my  guineas 
cast  down  on  the  loo-table."  These  two  could  never 
discuss  anything  but  what  it  must  end  in  a  dif- 
ference. 

"  Thou  art  a  fool,  Gainor,  to  talk  such  wicked  non- 
sense before  this  boy.  It  is  not  worth  an  answer.  I 
hear  no  good  of  Hugh  of  late.  He  hath  been  a  con- 
cern to  James  Pemberton  and  to  my  friend,  Nicholas 
Wain,  and  to  me— to  me.  Tliy  gambling  and  idle 
redcoats  are  snares  to  his  soul.  He  has  begun  to 
have  opinions  of  his  own  as  to  taxes,  and  concerning 
the  plain  duty  of  non-resistance.  As  if  an  idle  dog 
like  him  had  any  right  to  have  an  opinion  at  aU ! " 

"  Tut !  tut !  "  cried  Miss  Wynne. 

"  I  am  not  idle,"  I  said,  "  if  I  am  a  dog." 

He  turned  and  seized  me  by  the  collar.  "  I  will 
teach  thee  to  answer  thy  elders."  And  with  this  he 
shook  me  violently,  and  caught  up  a  cane  from  a 
chair  where  he  had  laid  it. 

And  now,  once  again,  that  disposition  to  be  meny 
came  over  me,  and,  perfectly  passive,  I  looked  up  at 
him  and  smiled.  As  I  think  of  it,  it  was  strange  m 
a  young  fellow  of  my  age. 

"  Wouldst  thou  laugh  ? "  he  cried.     "  Has  it  gone 


•  I  WILL  TKACH  THKE  TO  ANSWKR  THY  KLDKRS 


I'aoi-  St 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         S^ 

that  far  ? "  and  he  raised  his  stick.  My  Aunt  Gainor 
jerked  it  out  of  his  hand,  and,  standing,  broke  it 
over  her  knee  as  if  it  had  been  a  willow  wand. 

He  fell  back,  crying,  "  Gainor !  Gainor !  " 

"  My  God  !  nuiu,''  she  cried,  "  are  you  mad  ?  If  I 
were  you  I  would  take  some  heed  to  that  hot  Welsh 
blood.  "What  wt»uld  my  good  Marie  say  1  Why  have 
you  not  had  the  sense  to  make  a  friend  of  the  boy  ? 
He  is  worth  ten  ot  you,  and  has  kept  his  temper  like 
the  gendemau  he  is." 

It  was  true.  I  ha<l  some  queer  sense  of  amusement 
in  the  feeling  that  I  really  was  not  angry ;  neither 
was  I  ashamed ;  but  au  hour  later  I  was  both  angry 
and  ashamed.  Just  now  I  felt  sorry  for  my  father, 
and  shared  the  humiliation  he  evidently  felt. 

My  aunt  turned  to  her  brother,  where,  having  let 
me  go,  he  stood  with  .set  features,  looking  from  her 
to  me,  and  from  me  to  her.  Something  in  his  look 
disturbed  her. 

"You  should  be  proud  of  his  self-command.  Can- 
not you  see  that  it  is  your  accursed  repression  and 
dry,  drean,'  life  at  home  that  has  put  you  two  apart  ? " 

"  I  have  been  put  to  scorn  before  ni}*  son,  Gainor 
WjTine.  It  is  thy  evil  ways  that  have  brought  this 
about.  I  have  lost  my  temper  and  would  have  struck 
in  anger,  when  I  .should  have  reflected,  and,  after 
prayer,  chastised  this  insolence  at  home." 

"I  heard  no  insolence." 

"Go  away,  Hugh,  and  thou,  Gainor.  Why  dost 
thou  always  provoke  me  T     I  will  hear  no  more  !  " 

"  Come,  Hugh,"  she  said  j  and  then :  "  It  seems  to 


86        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

me  that  the  boy  has  had  a  good  lesson  in  meekness, 
and  as  to  turning  that  other  cheek." 

"  Don't,  Aunt  Gainor !  "  said  I,  interrupting  her. 

"  Oh,  go !  "  exclaimed  my  father.  "  Go !  go,  "both 
of  you ! " 

''  Certainly ;  but,  John,  do  not  mention  my  news 
or  my  London  letter." 

"  I  shall  not." 

"  Then  by-by !     Come,  Hugh ! " 


VI 

HERE  must  have  been  in  this  troubled 
(.'t)untry  many  such  sad  scenes  as  I  have 
tried  to  recall.  Father  and  son  were 
to  part  with  hot  words,  brother  to  take 
sides  against  brother.  My  unpleasant 
half-hour  was  but  prophetic  of  that  which  was  to 
come  in  worse  shape,  and  to  last  for  yeai'S. 

My  Aunt  Gainor  said,  "  Do  not  tell  your  mother," 
and  I  assuredly  did  not. 

"  He  will  t<"ll  her.  He  tells  her  everything,  soon 
or  late.  I  must  see  her  at  once.  Your  father  is  be- 
coming, as  the  French  say,  impossible.  The  times, 
and  these  wrangling  Friends,  %Wth  theii*  stupid  tes- 
timonies, irritate  him  daily  until  he  is  like  a  great, 
strong  bull,  such  as  the  Spaniards  tease  to  madness 
with  little  dart8  and  fireworks.  You  see,  Hugh, 
events  are  prickly  tilings.  They  play  the  deuce  with 
oV)stinate  people.  Your  father  ■will  be  better  away 
from  home.  He  has  never  been  in  England,  and  he 
will  see  how  many,  like  Mr.  Pitt  and  Colonel  Barre, 
are  with  us.  As  for  myself,  I  have  been  a  bit  of  a 
fool  about  you,  and  your  father  is  more  or  less  right. 
We  must  abjur«  sack  and  take  physic." 

«7 


88         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"What?  "said  I. 

"  To  be  plain,  we  must— that  is,  yon  must— play 
less  and  drink  less,  and  in  your  father's  absence 
look  sharply,  "with  my  help,  to  his  business." 

I  was  to  need  other  doctors  before  I  mended  my 
ways.  I  said  my  aunt  was  right,  and  I  made  cer- 
tain good  resolutions,  which  were  but  short-lived  and 
never  reached  adult  maturity  of  usefulness. 

My  aunt  walked  with  me  north  between  the  ware- 
houses, taverns,  and  ship-chandlers  on  the  river- 
front, and  so  across  the  bridge  over  Dock  Creek,  and 
up  to  Third  street.  She  said  I  must  not  talli  to  her. 
She  had  thinking  to  do,  and  for  this  cause,  I  suppose, 
turning,  took  me  down  to  Pine  street.  At  St.  Petei"'s 
Church  she  stopped,  and  bade  me  wait  without,  add- 
ing, "  If  I  take  you  in  I  shall  hear  of  it ;  wait." 

There  was  a  midday  service  at  this  time,  it  being 
Lent.  I  waited  idly,  thinking  of  my  father,  and,  as 
I  before  said,  vexed  and  sorry  and  ashamed  by  turns. 
Often  now  I  pause  before  I  enter  this  sacred  edifice, 
and  tliiuk  of  that  hour  of  tribulation.  I  could  hear 
the  fine,  full  voice  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duche  as  he  in- 
toned the  Litany.  He  hes  now  where  I  stood,  and 
under  the  arms  on  his  tomb  is  no  record  of  the 
political  foolishness  and  instability  of  a  life  otherwise 
free  from  blame.  As  I  stood,  Mrs.  Ferguson  came 
out,  she  who  in  days  to  come  helped  to  get  the  un- 
lucky parson  into  trouble.   With  her  came  my  aunt. 

"  I  said  a  prayer  for  thee,  Hugh,"  she  whispered. 
"  No ;  no  cards  in  Lent,  my  dear  Bess.  Fie !  for 
shame !     This   way,  Hugh ; "   and    we   went    east, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         89 

through  Fine  street,  and  so  to  the  back  of  our  grar- 
deu,  where  we  fouud  a  way  iu,  aud,  walking  under 
the  peach-trees,  came  to  where  my  mother  sat  be- 
neath a  phim-tree,  sheUing  peas,  her  gi*eat  Manx  eat 
by  her  side. 

She  wore  a  thin  cap  on  top  of  the  curly  head, 
which  was  now  ^nnd-blown  out  of  all  order.  "  Come, 
Gainor,"  she  cried,  seeing  us ;  "  help  me  to  .shell  my 
peas.  Thou  shalt  have  some.  They  are  come  in  a 
ship  from  the  Bermudas.  Wiiat  a  pretty  pjile  gi'een 
tlie  pods  are  !    I  should  like  an  apron  of  that  colour." 

"  I  have  the  very  thing,  dear.  Shall  it  be  the  min- 
uet pattern,  or  plain?" 

"  Oh,  plain.  Am  I  not  a  Friend  ?  Une  Amie  f  Ciel ! 
but  it  is  droll  in  French.  Sarali  Logan  is  twice  as 
gay  as  I,  but  John  does  not  love  such  vanities.  Quant 
d  moi,je  h.'^  adore.  It  seems  odd  to  have  a  colour  to  a 
religion.  I  wonder  if  drab  goodness  be  better  than 
red  goodness.  But  what  is  wrong,  Gainor?  Yes, 
there  is  something.  Hugh,  thy  collar  is  torn ;  how 
careless  of  me  not  to  have  mended  it !  " 

Then  mv  Aunt  Gainor,  saving  nothing  of  mv 
especial  difficulty,  and  leaving  out,  too,  her  London 
news,  related  with  remarkable  clearness  the  reasons 
why  my  fatlier  should  go  overseas  in  the  early  full  and 
be  gone  ff>r  a  year.  The  mother  went  on  quietly  shell- 
ing the  peas,  and  losing  no  word.  When  Gainor  had 
done,  the  bowl  of  peas  was  .set  aside,  and  my  mother 
put  back  her  curls,  fixed  her  blue  eyes  on  her  sister- 
in-law,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment  longer.  At  last 
she  said,  "It  were  best,  for  many  reasons  best.     I  see 


9©        Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

it,"  and  sTie  nodded  her  head  affirmatively.  "  But 
my  son  ?  my  Hugh  ? " 

"  You  will  have  him  with  you  at  home.  Every- 
thing will  go  on  as  usual,  except  that  John  will  be 
amusing  himself  in  London." 

At  this  the  little  lady  leaped  up,  all  ablaze,  so  to 
speak.  Never  had  I  seen  her  so  moved.  "What  man- 
ner of  woman  am  I,  Gainor  Wynne,  that  I  should  let 
my  husband  go  alone  on  the  seas,  and  here  and  there, 
without  me  ?  I  will  not  have  it.  My  boy  is  my 
boy ;  God  knows  I  love  him ;  but  my  husband  comes 
first  now  and  always,  and  thou  art  cruel  to  wish  to 
part  us." 

"  But  I  never  wished  to  part  you.  Go  with  him, 
Marie.  God  bless  your  sweet  heart !  Leave  me  your 
boy ;  he  cannot  go.  As  God  Hves,  I  will  take  care 
of  him ! " 

Upon  this  the  two  women  fell  to  weeping  in  each 
other's  arms,  a  thing  most  uncommon  for  my  Aunt 
Gainor.  Then  they  talked  it  all  over,  as  if  John 
Wynne  were  not :  when  it  would  be,  and  what  room 
I  was  to  have,  and  my  clothes,  and  the  business,  and 
so  on— all  the  endless  details  wherewith  the  cunning 
affection  of  good  women  knows  to  provide  comfort 
for  us.  who  are  so  apt  to  be  unthankful. 

It  amazed  me  to  see  how  quickly  it  was  settled, 
and  stiU  more  to  learn  that  my  father  did  not  oppose, 
but  fell  in  with  all  their  plans. 

Now  back  of  all  my  weaknesses  and  folly  I  had, 
as  I  have  said,  some  of  the  sense  of  honour  and  proud 
rectitude  of  my  father,  who  strictly  abided  by  his 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker         91 

creed  and  his  conscience.  I  returned  no  more  that 
day  to  the  counting-house,  but,  sayiug  to  my  mother 
I  had  business,  I  went  off,  with  a  hunk  of  bread,  to 
my  boat,  and  down  the  creek  to  the  Dehuvare.  I 
pulled  out,  past  our  old  playground  on  the  island,  and 
tar  away  toward  the  Jei-sey  shore,  and  then,  as  the 
sun  fell,  drifted  ^^^th  the  tide,  noting  the  ruddy  lines 
of  the  brick  houses  far  away,  and  began  to  think. 

The  scene  I  had  gone  through  had  made  a  deep 
impression.  It  has  been  ever  so  with  me.  Drink- 
ing, gaming,  bettiug,  and  worse,  never  awakened  my 
conscience  or  set  me  retiectiug,  until  some  sudden, 
unlooked-for  thing  took  place,  in  wliich  sentiment 
or  affection  was  concerned.  Then  I  would  set  to 
work  to  balance  my  books  and  determine  my  course. 
At  such  times  it  was  the  dear  mother  who  spoke  in 
me,  and  the  father  who  resolut<ily  carried  out  my 
decision. 

The  boat  ilrifted  slowlv  with  the  flood-tide,  and  I, 
lying  on  the  bottom,  fell  to  thought  of  what  the  day 
had  brttught  me.  The  setting  sun  touched  the  single 
spire  of  Christ  Church,  and  lit  up  yellow  squares  of 
light  in  the  westward-looking  windows  of  the  rare 
farm-houses  on  the  Jersey  shore.  Presently  I  was 
aground  on  the  south  end  of  Petty's  Island,  where  in 
after-years  lay  rotting  the  "Allian(':e,"the  remnant  ship 
of  the  greatest  sea-fight  that  ever  was  since  Grenville 
lay  in  the  "  Revenge,"  with  the  Spanish  fleet  about  him. 
I  came  to  ground  amid  the  reeds  and  spatter-docks, 
where  the  water-lilies  were  just  in  bud.  A  noisy 
orchestra  of  frogs,  with,  as  Jack  said,  liddlcs  and 


92         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

.^ — . 1  ■- — — — ■-.  -.  I       -  .1  ■  ■   .  .    ■    I.     I  I         ■■  I         ^ 

bassoons  in  their  throats,  ceased  as  I  came,  and 
pitched  headlong  off  the  broad  gi-een  floats.  Only 
one  old  fellow,  with  a  great  bass  voice,  and  secure 
on  the  bank,  protested  loudly  at  intervals,  like  the 
owl  in  Mr,  Gray's  noble  poem,  which  my  Jack  loved 
to  repeat. 

At  last  he— I  mean  my  frog— whose  monastery  I 
had  disturbed,  so  vexed  me,  who  wanted  stillness,  that 
I  smacked  the  water  with  the  flat  of  an  oar,  which 
he  took  to  be  a  hint,  and  ceased  to  lament  my  in- 
trusion. 

I  was  now  well  on  to  twenty,  and  old  enough  to 
begin  at  times  to  deal  thoughtfully  with  events.  A 
young  fellow's  feelings  are  apt  to  be  extreme,  and 
even  despotic,  so  that  they  rule  the  hour  with  such 
strength  of  sway  as  may  be  out  of  proportion  to  the 
cause.  I  might  have  seen  that  I  had  no  just  cause  to 
blame  myself,  but  that  did  not  help  me.  The  mood 
of  distressful  seK-accusation  was  on  me.  I  had  no 
repeated  impulse  to  smile  at  what,  in  my  father's 
conduct,  had  appeared  to  me  a  little  while  ago  odd, 
and  even  amusing.  I  could  never  please  him.  I  had 
grinned  as  I  always  did  when  risks  were  upon  me. 
He  never  understood  me,  and  I  was  tired  of  trying. 
What  use  was  it  to  try  ?  I  had  one  of  those  minutes 
of  wishing  to  die,  which  come  even  to  the  wholesome 
young.  I  was  well  aware  that  of  late  I  had  not, 
on  the  whole,  satisfied  my  conscience ;  I  knew  this 
quite  too  well ;  and  now,  as  I  lay  in  the  boat  dis- 
contented, I  felt,  as  the  youthful  do  sometimes  feel, 
as  if  I  were  old,  and  the  ending  of  things  were  near. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        9 


-> 


It  was  but  a  mood,  but  it  led  up  to  serious  thought. 
There  are  surely  hours  in  youth  wheu  we  are  older 
than  our  years,  and  times  in  age  when  we  are  again 
young.  ISonietinies  I  wonder  whether  Jack  was  right, 
who  used  to  say  it  nuiy  be  we  are  never  young  or  old, 
but  merely  seem  to  be  so.  This  is  the  queer  kind  of 
reflection  which  I  lind  now  and  tlien  in  Jack's  diary, 
or  with  which  he  usf^d  to  puzzle  me  and  please 
James  Wilson.  Of  cocU'se  a  man  is  young  or  is  old. 
and  there  's  an  end  on  't,  as  a  gi-eater  man  has  said. 
But  Jack  has  imagination,  and  I  have  none. 

I  asked  myself  if  I  had  done  wi-ong  in  what  I  had 
said.  I  could  not  see  tliat  I  had.  With  all  my  life- 
long fear  of  my  father,  I  greatly  honoured  and  re- 
spect<*d  him,  finding  in  myself  something  akin  to  the 
unvielding  fii-mness  with  which  he  stood  fast  when 
he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

That  this  proud  and  steadfast  man,  so  looked  up  to 
by  every  one,  no  matter  what  might  be  theii*  convic- 
tions religious  or  political,  should  have  been  humili- 
ated by  a  woman,  seemed  to  me  intolerable ;  this 
was  the  chief  outcome  of  my  reflections.  Ir  is  tnie 
I  considered,  but  I  fear  lightly,  my  own  misdoings. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  better,  and  then  again  the 
image  of  my  father  in  his  ^v^ath  and  his  shame  came 
back  anew.  I  turned  the  boat,  and  pidled  steadily 
across  the  river  to  our  lauding. 

My  father  was  in  the  counting-house  in  his  own 
room,  alone,  although  it  was  full  late.  ''  Well  ?  "  ho 
said,  s])iniiing  round  on  his  high  stool.  "What  is 
itT     Thou  hast  been  absent,  and  no  leave  a.sked." 


94        Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  Father,"  I  said,  "  if  I  was  wrong  this  morning  I 
wish  to  ask  thy  pardon." 

"  Well,  it  is  full  time." 

"  And  I  am  come  to  say  that  I  will  take  the  punish- 
ment here  and  now.    I  did  not  run  away  from  that." 

"Very  good,"  he  replied,  rising.  "Take  off  thy 
fine  coat." 

I  wished  he  had  not  said  this  of  my  coat.  I  was 
in  a  heroic  temper,  and  the  sarcasm  bit  cruelly,  but 
I  did  as  I  was  bid.  He  went  to  the  corner,  and 
picked  up  a  rattan  cane.  To  whip  fellows  of  nine- 
teen or  twenty  was  not  then  by  any  means  unusual. 
What  woidd  have  happened  I  know  not,  nor  evet 
shall.  He  said,  "  There,  I  hear  thy  mother's  voice. 
Put  on  thy  coat."     I  hastened  to  obey  him. 

The  dear  lady  came  in  with  eyes  full  of  tears. 
"What  is  this,  John,  I  hear?  I  have  seen  Gainor. 
I  could  not  wait.     I  shall  go  with  thee." 

"No,"  he  said ;  "that  is  not  to  be."  But  she  feD 
on  his  neck,  and  pleaded,  and  I,  for  my  part,  went 
away,  not  sorry  for  the  interruption.  As  usual  she 
had  her  way. 

I  remember  well  this  spring  of  '73.  It  was  early 
by  some  weeks,  and  everything  was  green  and  blos- 
soming in  April.  My  father  and  mother  were  not  to 
sail  until  the  autumn,  but  already  he  was  arranging 
for  the  voyage,  and  she  as  busily  preparing  or  think- 
ing over  what  was  needed. 

When  next  I  saw  my  Aunt  Gainor,  she  cried  out, 
"  Sit  down  there,  bad  boy,  and  take  care  of  my  man- 
darin.  He  and  my  great  bronze  Buddha  are  my  only 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        9:^ 

counsellors.  If  I  want  to  do  a  tliinof  I  ask  Mr.  Man- 
darin—he can  only  nod  ves:  and  if  I  want  not  to  do 
a  tiling  I  ask  Buddha,  and  as  he  can  neither  say  no 
nor  yes,  I  do  as  I  j)leas;e.     Wliat  a  wreteh  you  are  !  " 

I  said  I  could  not  see  it ;  and  then  I  put  my  head 
in  her  lap,  as  I  Siit  on  the  stool,  and  told  her  of  my 
last  interview  with  my  father,  and  how  for  two  days 
he  had  hardly  so  much  as  bade  me  good-night. 

"It  is  his  way,  Hugh,"  said  my  aunt.  "I  am 
sorry;  but  neither  love  nor  time  will  mend  him. 
He  is  what  his  nature  and  the  hard  ways  of  Friends 
have  made  him." 

I  said  that  this  was  not  all,  nor  the  worst,  and 
went  on  to  tell  her  my  latest  grievance.  Our  family 
worship  at  home  was,  as  usual  with  Friends  in  those 
days,  conducted  at  times  in  total  silence,  and  was 
spoken  of  by  Friends  as  "  religious  retirement."  At 
other  times,  indeed  commonly,  a  chapter  of  the  Bible 
was  read  aloud,  and  after  that  my  father  would  some- 
times pray  openly.  On  this  last  occasion  he  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity  to  dilate  on  my  sins,  and  be- 
fore our  servants  to  ask  of  Heaven  that  I  be  brought 
to  a  due  sense  of  my  ini(juities.  It  troubled  my 
mother,  who  arose  from  her  knees  in  tears,  and  went 
out  of  the  room,  whilst  I,  overcome  with  anger,  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window.  My  father  spoke  to  her 
a.s  she  opened  the  door,  but  she  made  no  answer,  nor 
even  so  much  as  turned  her  head.  It  brought  to  my 
raemor}'  a  day  of  my  childhood,  when  my  father 
was  vexed  l)ecause  she  taught  me  to  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer.    He  did  not  aj)prove,  and  would  have  no  set 


96         Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

form  of  words  taught  me.  My  mother  was  angry 
too,  and  I  remember  my  own  amazement  that  any 
one  should  resist  my  father. 

When  I  had  told  my  aunt  of  the  indignity  put 
upon  me,  and  of  the  fading  remembrance  thus 
recalled,  she  said,  "  John  Wynne  has  not  changed, 
nor  will  he  ever."  She  declared  that,  after  all,  it  was 
her  fault— to  have  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  man,  and 
to  have  given  me  too  much  money.  I  shook  my  head, 
but  she  would  have  it  she  was  to  blame,  and  then  said 
of  a  sudden, ''  Are  you  in  debt,  you  scamp  ?  Did  John 
pray  for  me  ? "  I  replied  that  I  owed  no  one  a  penny, 
and  that  she  had  not  been  remembered.  She  was 
glad  I  was  not  in  debt,  and  added,  "  Never  play  un- 
less you  have  the  means  to  pay.  I  have  been  very 
foolish.  That  uneasy  woman,  Bessy  Ferguson,  must 
needs  tell  me  so.  I  could  have  slapped  her.  They 
will  have  thy  sad  case  up  in  Meeting,  I  can  tell  thee." 

"  But  what  have  I  done  f "     I  knew  well  enough. 

"  Tut !  you  must  not  talk  that  way  to  me  ;  but  it  is 
my  fault.  Oh,  the  time  I  have  had  with  your  mother ! 
I  am  not  fit,  it  seems,  to  be  left  to  take  care  of  you. 
They  talk  of  leaving  you  with  Abijah  Hap  worthy— 
sour  old  dog !    I  wish  you  joy  of  him  !  " 

"  Good  heavens !"  I  exclaimed ;  for  among  my  aunt's 
gay  friends  I  had  picked  up  such  exclamatory  phrases 
as,  used  at  home,  would  have  astonished  my  father. 

"  Rest  easy,"  said  Mistress  Wynne ;  "  it  is  not  to  be. 
I  have  fought  your  battle,  and  won  it.  But  I  have 
had  to  make  such  promises  to  your  father,  and— woe 
is  me  I  —to  yom*  mother,  as  will  damn  me  forever  if 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        97 

you  do  not  help  me  to  keep  tliem.  1  can  fib  to  your 
father  and  not  cai*e  a  snap,  but  lie  to  those  blue  eyes 
f  cannot." 

''  I  will  try,  Aunt  Gainor ;  indeed  I  mil  try."  In- 
deed, I  did  mean  to. 

"  You  nuist,  you  must.  I  am  to  be  a  sort  of  god- 
mother-in-hiw  to  vou,  and  renounce  for  vou  the  world, 
the  tlesh,  and  the  devil ;  and  that  for  one  of  our  breed  ! 
I  shall  be  like  a  sipu-post,  ar^l  never  go  the  way  I 
point.  That  was  Bessy  Ferfru-sons  malice.  Oh,  I 
have  suffered,  I  can  tell  you.  It  is  I,  and  not  you,  that 
have  repented." 

"  But  I  will ;  I  do." 

"  That  is  all  very  well ;  but  I  have  had  my  whip- 
ping, and  you  got  off  yours." 

"What  do  you  mean,  aunt?" 

"  What  do  I  mean  1  Here  came  yesterday  Sarah 
Fisher,  pretty  gay  for  a  Quaker,  and  tliat  solemn 
Master  Savor>',  with  his  sweet,  low  voice  like  a  nice 
girl's  tongue,  and  his  gentle  ways.  And  they  are 
friends  of  thy  pei^ple,  who  are  distressed  at  thy  go- 
ings on  ;  and  Nicholas  Wain  has  seen  thee  with  two 
Bons  of  Belial  in  red  coats,  come  out  of  the  coffee- 
bouse  last  month  at  evening,  singing  songs  such  as 
are  not  to  be  described,  and  no  better  able  to  take 
care  of  yourself  than  you  should  be.  They  did  think 
it  well  and  kind— hang  'em,  Hugh  !  — to  consider  the 
matter  with  me.  We  considered  it— we  did,  indcid. 
There  be  five  people  wliose  consciences  I  am  to  make 
you  respect.  And  not  one  of  them  do  I  care  for, 
but  Mother  Blue-eyes.    But  I  must.'  I  must!    It  was 


98         Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

all  true,  sir,  what  Friend  Wain  said;  for  you  liad 
reason  enough  left  to  come  hither,  and  did  I  not  put 
you  to  bed  and  send  for  Dr.  Chovet,  who  grinned 
famously,  and  said,  '  Je  comprends/  and  went  to  call 
on  your  father  on  a  hint  from  me,  to  declare  you  were 
enrhume,  and  threatened  with  I  know  not  what;  in 
fact,  he  lied  like  a  gentleman.  You  made  a  noble  re- 
covery, and  are  a  credit  to  the  doctor.  I  hope  you 
will  pay  the  bill,  and  are  ashamed." 

I  was,  and  I  said  so. 

"  But  that  is  not  all.  These  dear  Quakers  were 
the  worst.  They  wei-e  really  sorry,  and  I  had  to  put 
on  my  best  mannei*s  and  listen ;  and  now  everybody 
knows,  and  you  are  the  talk  of  the  town.  Those  drab 
geese  must  out  with  the  whole  naughtiness,  despite 
the  company  which  came  in  on  us,  and  here  were 
Mr.  Montresor  and  that  ape  Etherington  grinning, 
and,  worst  of  all,  a  charming  young  woman  just  come 
to  live  here  with  her  aunt,  and  she  too  must  have 
her  say  when  the  Quakers  and  the  men  were  gone." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ? "  I  did  not  care  much. 
"And  what  is  her  name  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  said  the  Quakers  were  rather  outspoken 
people,  and  it  was  a  pity,  and  she  was  sorry,  because 
she  knew  you  once,  and  you  had  taken  her  part  at 
school." 

"At  school?" 

"  Yes.  She  is  Darthea  Peniston,  and  some  kin  of 
that  Miss  de  Lancey,  whom  Su*  William  Draper  wiU 
man-y  if  he  can." 

"Darthea  Peniston?"  I  said,  and  my  thoughts 


Hu2:h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker        99 


went  back  to  the  tender  little  maid  who  wept  when 
I  was  punished,  and  for  whom  I  had  revenged  my- 
self on  Master  Dove. 

'•  Quite  a  Spauisli  beauty,"  said  my  Aunt  "Wj-nue ; 
"  a  pretty  mite  of  a  girl,  and  not  more  money  than 
will  elotlie  her,  they  say  ;  but  tlie  men  mad  about  her. 
Come  and  see  her  to-morrow  if  you  are  sober." 

''  O  Aunt  Gainor  !  •' 

"Yes,  sir.  I  hear  Mr,  Monti'esor  has  leave  from 
Anthony  Morris  to  invite  you  to  '  The  Colony  in 
Schuvlkill'  to-morrow.  It  is  well  voiu*  father  has 
gone  to  A-isit  Mr.  Yeates  at  Lancaster." 

"  I  shaU  behave  myself.  Aunt  Gainor." 

"  I  hope  so.     The  Fish  House  punch  is  strong." 

I  went  home  thinking  of  Miss  Darthea  Peniston, 
and  filled  vrith  desire  to  lead  a  -vWser  life.  It  was  full 
time.  My  aunt's  lavish  generosity  had,  as  I  have  said, 
given  me  means  to  live  freely  among  the  officers, 
who  were,  with  some  exceptions,  a  dissolute  set.  To 
be  with  them  made  it  needful  to  become  deceitful 
and  to  fi*ame  excuses,  so  that,  when  I  was  supposed 
to  be  at  ray  aunt's,  or  riding,  I  was  free  that  past  win- 
ter to  goon  sleighing-partiesor  to  frequent  taverns, 
plea.sed  Anth  the  notice  I  got  from  men  like  Montre- 
sor  and  the  officers  of  the  Scotch  Grays. 

I  liave  dwelt  not  at  all  on  these  scenes  of  dissipa- 
tion. It  is  enough  to  mention  them.  My  father  was 
Avrapped  up  in  liis  })usiness,  and  full  of  cares  both 
worlflly  and  spiritual ;  for  now  Friends  were  becom- 
ing politically  divided,  and  the  meetings  were  long 
and  sometimes  agitated. 


I  oo      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


My  good  mother  was  neither  deceived  nor  uncon- 
cerned. She  talked  to  me  often,  and  in  such  a  way 
as  brings  tears  to  my  eyes  even  now  to  think  of 
the  pain  I  gave  her.  Alas !  it  is  our  dearest  who 
have  the  greatest  power  to  wound  us.  I  wept  and 
promised,  and  went  back  to  my  husks  and  evil  com- 
pany. 

I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  these  things  from  my 
children.  It  is  well  that  oiu-  offspring  when  young 
should  think  us  angels;  but  it  were  as  well  that 
when  they  are  older  they  should  learn  that  we  have 
been  men  of  like  passions  with  themselves,  and  have 
known  temptation,  and  have  fought,  and  won  or  lost, 
our  battles  with  sin.  It  is  one  of  the  weaknesses  of 
nations,  as  weU  as  of  children,  that  they  come  to 
consider  their  political  fathers  as  saints.  I  smUe 
when  I  think  of  the  way  people  nowadays  think  of 
our  great  President,  as  of  a  mild  genius,  incapable 
of  being  moved  to  anger  or  great  mirth,  a  man  un- 
spotted of  the  world.  They  should  have  heard  him 
at  Monmouth,  when  Lee  failed  him  in  a  time  of  peril, 
or  seen  him,  as  I  have  seen  him,  soberly  merry  over 
his  wine  with  Knox.  But  some  day  you  shall  see 
him  as  my  friend  Jack  and  I  saw  him,  and  you  will, 
I  trust,  think  no  worse  of  him  for  being  as  human 
as  he  was  just. 

The  day  of  my  more  honest  repentance  was  near, 
and  I  knew  not  that  it  was  to  be  both  terrible  and 
of  lasting  value.  I  sometimes  reflect  upon  the  ciu-i- 
ous  conditions  with  which  my  early  manhood  was 
surrounded.     Here  was  I,  brought  up  in  the  strictest 


Hu^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      loi 

ways  of  a  sect  to  which  I  do  no  injustice  if  I  describe 
it  as  ascetic.  At  home  I  saw  plain  living,  and  no 
luxurv.  save  in  regard  to  food,  which  my  father 
would  have  of  the  best  money  could  buy.  I  was 
taught  the  extreme  of  non-resistance,  and  absolute 
simplicity  as  to  dress  and  language.  Amusements 
there  were  none,  and  my  father  read  no  books  ex- 
cept such  as  dejilt  with  things  spiritual,  or  things 
commercial.  At  my  aunt's,  and  in  tlie  society  I  saw 
at  her  house,  there  were  men  and  women  who  loved 
to  dance,  gamble,  and  amuse  themselves.  The  talk 
was  of  bets,  racing,  and  the  like.  To  be  drunk  was 
a  thing  to  be  expected  of  officers  and  gentlemen. 
To  avenge  an  insult  with  sword  or  pistol  was  the 
only  way  to  deal  with  it.  ^ly  father  was  a  passive 
Tor}',  my  aunt  a  furious  Whig.  What  wonder  that 
I  fell  a  victim  to  temptation  ? 


vn 


HE  next  day,  having  seen  to  matters  of 
business  in  the  morning,  I  set  out  after 
dinner  in  my  finest  clothes  to  join  my 
friends.  I  fear  that  I  promised  my  mo- 
ther to  be  careful,  and  to  be  at  home 
by  nine  o'clock. 

I  met  Captain  Montresor  at  the  London  Coffee- 
house, at  High  and  Front  streets,  and,  having  taken 
a  chaise,  di'ove  out  through 'the  woods  to  the  upper 
ferry,  and  tJience  to  Egglesfield,  the  seat  of  Mr.  War- 
ner, from  whom  the  club  known  then  as  "  The  Colony 
in  Schuylkill "  held  under  a  curious  tenure  the  acre 
or  two  of  land  where  they  had  built  a  log  cabin  and 
founded  this  ancient  and  singular  institution.  Here 
were  met  Anthony  Morris,  who  fell  at  Trenton,  Mr. 
Tench  Francis,  sometime  Attorney-General,  Mifflin, 
and  that  Galloway  who  later  became  a  Tory,  with 
Mr.  Willing,  and  others  of  less  note,  old  and  young. 
I  was  late  for  the  annual  ceremony  of  presenting 
three  fish  to  Mr.  Warner,  this  being  the  condition  on 
which  the  soil  was  held,  but  I  saw  the  great  pewter 
dish  with  the  Penn  arms,  a  gift  from  that  family,  on 
which  the  fish  were  offered. 

It  was  a  merry  and  an  odd  party ;  for,  clad  in  white 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker       J  03 


aprons,  the  apprentices,  so  called,  cooked  the  dinner 
and  served  it ;  and  the  punch  and  Madeli-a  went  round 
the  table  often  enough,  as  the  "  king's  health  "  was 
drunk,  and  "  success  to  trade,"  and  "  tlie  ladies,  God 
bless  them !  " 

I  liked  it  well,  and,  with  my  aunt's  warning  in 
mind,  drank  but  little,  and  li.^toned  to  the  talk,  which 
was  too  free  at  times,  as  was  tlie  bad  custom  of  that 
day,  and  now  and  then  angry ;  for  here  were  some 
who  were  to  die  for  their  country,  and  some  who  were 
to  fail  it  in  the  hour  of  need. 

Despite  my  English  friends,  and  thanks  to  Mr. 
Wilson  and  my  Aunt  Gainor,  I  was  fast  becoming  an 
ardent  Whig,  so  tliat  the  talk,  in  which  I  had  small 
share,  interested  me  deeply.  At  last,  about  seven,  the 
pipes  having  been  smoked  and  much  punch  taken, 
the  company  rose  to  go,  some  of  them  the  worse  for 
their  potations. 

We  drove  into  to\^Ti,  and  at  the  coffee-house  put 
up  and  paid  for  our  chaise.  I  said  good-by  to  Mr. 
Jklontresor,  who,  I  thmk,  had  been  charged  by  Miss 
Wynne  to  look  after  me,  when  a  Captain  Small, 
whom  I  knew,  stopped  me.  He  was  well  kno^\^l  as 
one  of  the  most  reckless  of  the  younger  officers,  a 
stout,  short  man,  ratht*r  heroically  presented  long 
afterward,  in  Trumbull's  picture  of  the  "Death  of 
Warren,"  its  trying  to  put  aside  the  bayonets.  As  I 
paused  to  reply,  I  saw  Jack  Warder  standing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  Ho  nodded,  smiling,  and 
made  as  if  he  were  about  to  cross  over.  He  had 
niany  times  talked  \\ith  me  seriously  this  winter, 


1 04      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


until  I  had  become  vexed,  and  told  him  he  was  a 
milksop.  After  this  I  saw  little  of  him.  Now  I  was 
annoyed  at  the  idea  that  he  was  spying  upon  my 
actions,  and  therefore,  like  a  fool,  merely  nodded, 
and,  turning  my  back  on  him,  heard  Mr.  Small  say : 
"You  must  not  go  yet,  Mr.  Wynne.  We  are  to 
have  supper  upstaii's,  and  you  will  like  to  see  a  gen- 
tleman of  your  name,  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne,  of  the  Scots 
Grays.    He  tells  me  he  is  of  distant  kin  to  you." 

Montresor  said  I  had  better  go  home,  but  Ether- 
ington  asked  if  I  wanted  my  bottle  and  nurse ;  and 
so  at  last,  partly  from  pride  and  partly  out  of  cm-i- 
osity  to  see  this  other  Wynne,  I  said  I  would  remain 
long  enough  to  welcome  the  gentleman  and  take  a 
social  glass.  When  we  entered  the  room  upstairs, 
I  found  a  supper  of  cold  meats  and,  as  usual,  punch 
and  liquors.  There  were  two  dozen  or  more  officers 
in  undress  jackets,  their  caps  and  swords  in  the  cor- 
ners, and  also  two  or  three  of  the  younger  men  of 
the  Tory  or  doubtful  parties. 

Several  officers  called  to  me  to  sit  with  them,  for  I 
was  a  f  avouiite,  and  could  troU  a  catch  or  siag  parts 
f au'ly  well.  My  companion,  Small,  said,  "  Tliis  way, 
Wynne,"  and,  followed  by  Montresor  and  the  colonel 
of  the  Scots  Grays,  whose  name  I  forget,  we  moved 
to  a  table  remote  from  the  door.  Here  Montresor, 
pushing  past  Small,  said :  "  Captain  Wynne,  I  have 
the  honour  to  present  to  you  Mr.  Hugh  Wynne,  one 
of  j^our  family,  I  hear." 

Upon  this  there  rose  to  greet  me  a  gentleman  in 
the  undress  uniform  of  the  Grays.    He  was  tall  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qiuiker  ^  105 

well  built,  bnt  not  so  broad  or  strong  as  we  other 
"Wynnes :  certiiinlv  an  uuusuallv  handsome  man. 
He  carried  his  head  hitrh,  was  very  erect,  and  had 
an  air  of  distinction,  ft>r  which  at  that  time  I  shoiUd 
have  had  no  niuiie.  I  may  add  that  he  was  dressed 
with  unusual  neatness,  and  very  richly ;  all  of  which, 
I  being  but  a  half-formed  young  fellow,  did  much 
impress  me. 

He  looked  at  me  so  steadily  as  we  came  near  that 
it  gave  me  a  rather  unpleasant  impression ;  for  those 
who  do  not  meet  the  eye  at  all  are  scarcely  less  dis- 
agi-eeable  than  those  who  too  continuidly  watch  you, 
as  was  this  man's  way.  I  was  rather  young  to  be  a 
ver}'  carefid  observer  of  men's  fjices,  but  I  did  see  that 
Captain  Wynne's  bore  traces  of  too  convivial  habits. 

As  I  recall  his  dark,  regular  features,  I  remember, 
for  we  met  often  afterward,  that  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  was  too  thin,  and  that  in  repose  his  mouth 
was  apt  not  to  remain  fully  shut,  a  peculiaiity,  as  I 
now  think,  of  persons  of  weak  will. 

My  first  feeling  of  there  being  something  unpleas- 
ing  about  him  soon  left  me.  He  rose,  and,  with  gi-a- 
eiousness  and  tlie  ease  and  manner  of  one  used  to 
the  best  society,  moved  aroimd  the  table  and  took 
my  hand. 

"I  am  but  a  far-away  kinsman,"  he  said,  "but  I 
am  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance.  You  are 
like  the  picture  of  old  Sir  Robert  at  Wjiicote,  where 
I  was  hist  year  for  the  otter-hunting." 

I  greeted  liim  warmly.  "  And  art  thou  living  at 
WyncoteT"  I  asked  rather  awkwardly. 


1 06  %  Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"No,  I  do  not  live  at  home.  I  am  but  a  cadet, 
and  yours  is  the  elder  branch."  Then  he  added  gaily, 
"  I  salute  you,  sir,  as  the  head  of  our  old  house.  Your 
very  good  health  !  "  And  at  this,  with  a  charm  of  man- 
ner I  have  seen  but  rarely,  he  put  a  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  added,  "  We  must  be  friends.  Cousin 
Wynne,  and  I  must  know  your  father,  and  above  all 
Mistress  Wynne.  Montresor  never  ceases  talking  of 
her." 

I  said  it  would  give  me  pleasure  to  present  him ; 
then,  delighted  to  hear  of  Wyncote,  I  sat  down,  and, 
despite  a  warning  look  from  Montresor,  began  to  take 
wine  with  this  newly  found  kinsman. 

Mr.  Arthur  Wynne  was  a  man  fully  ten  years  my 
senior.  He  had  served  in  the  Guards,  and  in  the 
Indies,  and  was  full  of  stories  of  court  and  camp 
and  war,  such  as  every  young  fellow  of  spirit  likes 
to  hear. 

Captain  Montresor  lingered  awhile,  and  then,  find- 
ing it  vain  to  persist  in  his  pui'pose,  gave  it  up,  and 
fell  to  talking  with  one  of  his  fellow-officers,  while 
I  went  on  questioning  my  cousin  as  to  the  WjTines 
to  their  uttermost  generation.  Either  he  cared  httle 
about  them,  or  he  knew  little,  for  he  seemed  much 
to  prefer  to  tell  queer  stories  about  the  court  ladies, 
and  my  Lord  Chesterfield's  boor  of  a  son,  who  had 
such  small  manners  and  such  a  large  appetite,  and 
of  Sir  Guy  Carleton,  whom  he  was  about  to  join  in 
Canada.  He  advised  me  to  get  a  pair  of  coloiu-s  as 
my  aunt  had  once  desired,  and  seemed  surprised 
when  I  paraded  my  friend  Mr.  Wilson's  opinions  as 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker       i  07 

my  own,  and  talked  of  taxation  and  the  oppression 
under  which  commerce  had  to  be  carried  on.  In  fact, 
as  to  this  I  knew  something;  but  in  this,  as  in  other 
matters,  he  defeired  to  me  as  one  does  to  a  well- 
informed  talker  of  one's  own  age,  now  sotting  me 
right  with  admirable  courtesy,  and  now  cordially 
agreeing. 

What  with  his  evident  desii'C  to  be  friendly,  and 
the  wine  I  was  taking,  I  fell  an  easy  prey  to  one  who 
rarely  failed  to  please  wlien  he  was  so  minded.  Too 
weU  amused  to  reflect  that  the  hours  were  swiftly 
})assing,  I  sat,  taking  ghiss  after  glass  mechanically. 
As  the  night  went  on  we  luul  more  punch,  and  the 
dice  began  to  rattle  on  the  tables,  despite  the  land- 
lord's remonstrance,  who  feared  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  law  and  lose  his  liceniie.  But  a  lively  major 
called  out  that  here  was  licence  enough,  and  hustled 
him  out  of  the  room,  calling  for  more  rum-punch, 
and  stronger. 

Meanwhile  the  smoke  grew  tliick  and  thicker. 
Here  and  there  a  song  broke  out,  and  tlie  clink  of 
coin  and  the  rattle  of  dice  went  on.  Tlien,  when  at 
last  Montresor  came  to  our  talile  and  said  he  was 
going,  and  would  I  come  too,  I  rose,  and,  bidding 
my  kinsman  good-by,  went  with  tlie  cai)tain.  I  heard 
liira  swear  as  he  found  the  door  locked.  No  one 
seemed  to  know  who  had  tlie  key,  and  as  for  me,  not 
ill-pleased,  and  past  feeling  regret,  I  turned  back  and 
stood  over  a  table  where  some  officers  were  throwing 
a  main. 

Then  I  saw  in  a  comer  a  poor  fellow  who  used  to 


io8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

be  an  usher  at  the  academy,  and  who,  having  taken 
to  di'ink,  had  lost  his  place.  Now  he  was  a  sort  of 
servitor  in  the  coffee-house,  and  had  gotten  locked 
up  in  the  room  and  could  not  escape.  He  had  taken 
refuge  in  a  corner  at  a  deserted  table,  and,  sitting 
unnoticed,  was  solacing  himself  with  what  was  left 
of  a  bowl  of  punch.  A  sense  of  not  altogether  maudlin 
pity  came  upon  me,  and  I  went  over  and  sat  down 
beside  him.  No  one  took  any  heed  of  us.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  pipe-smoke,  oaths,  mad  catches  of 
song,  clink  of  glasses,  and  rattle  of  dice  noisily  cast, 
with  here  and  there  a  toast  cried ;  so  that  it  was  hard 
to  see  for  the  smoke,  or  to  hear  a  man  speak. 

"  Why,  Savoy !    How  earnest  thou  here  ? "  I  said. 

"  The  devil  fetched  me,  I  guess." 

He  was  far  gone  in  liquor.  "  I  am  like  Mr.  Sterne's 
starling :  '  I  can't  get  out.'  Ever  read  Mr.  Sterne's— 
what  is  it?— oh,  his  'Sentimental  Journey'?" 

Here  was  one  worse  than  I,  and  I  felt  inclined  to 
use  what  Friends  call  a  precious  occasion,  a  way 
being  opened. 

*'  This  is  a  sad  business,  Savoy,"  I  said. 

"  Dre'f  ul,"  he  returned.  "  Facilis  descenstis  taverni. 
No  use  to  talk  to  me.  I  am  tired  of  life.  I  am  going 
to  die.  Some  men  shoot  themselves,  some  like  the 
rope,  and  some  cold  water.  You  know  what  Bishop 
what's-his-name— I  mean  Jeremy  Taylor— says  about 
ways  to  die :  '■  None  please  me.'  But  drink  is  the  best. 
I  mean  to  drink  myself  dead— dead— d— dead,"  and 
here  he  fell  on  to  m.y  shoulder.  Letting  him  down 
easily,  I  loosed  his  neckerchief,  and  stood  beside  him, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      109 

pitiful  and  shocked.  Then  in  a  moment  I  felt  that 
I  was  dnink.  The  room  whirled,  and  with  an  effort 
I  got  to  the  open  window,  stuml)liuQ;  over  legs  of  men, 
who  looked  np  from  their  cards  and  em*sed  me. 

Of  what  chanced  after  this  I  knew  for  a  time  but 
little,  until  I  was  in  one  instant  sobered.  This  was 
an  hour  later,  and  nigh  to  twelve  o'clock.  "\Miat 
took  j)lace  I  heard  from  others ;  and,  as  it  concerns 
a  turuiug-])oint  in  my  life,  I  shall  try  to  relate  it  as 
if  I  myself  had  been  conscious  all  the  wliile. 

The  better  for  air,  I  went  over  to  a  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  not  far  from  the  door.  Leaning 
hea\'ily  on  Captain  Small's  shoulder,  I  threw  on  the 
table  the  last  gold  joe  my  aunt  had  given  me  with  her 
final  lesson  in  morals. 

"  Best  in  three,  Etheringt'On." 

"  Take  it,"  he  cried. 

I  threw  double  sixes,  he  threes,  and  I  deuce  ace. 
Then  he  cast  some  numbei*s  as  good.  Certainly  the 
devil  meant  to  have  me.  I  threw  a  third  time ;  a  sLx 
and  a  five  turned  up,  and  he  an  ace  and  a  four.  I 
had  won.  "  Double  or  quits,"  I  said  ;  "  one  throw." 
I  won  again,  and  at  this  I  went  on  until  the  pile  of 
gold  grew  beneath  my  eyes,  amid  laughter,  curses, 
and  all  manner  of  vileness.  Presently  I  heard  the 
colonfl  exclaim,  "  This  won't  do,  gentlemen,"  and  I 
felt  some  one  trying  to  draw  me  from  the  table.  It 
was  Captain  Wynne.  I  cried  out,  "  Hands  off !  no 
liberties  with  me!  I  am  the  head  of  thy  house; 
thou  art  only  a  cadet."  lie  laughed  as  I  pushed  him 
aside. 


no      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

■I  ■■■■- ^'     I  ■     ■      I  ■■■'■■—  ,     .  ■     ..^     I    I  I,  ..     I    I.,    -I,  ,     I  I  I  I.      ^ 

"You  said  double  or  quits,"  cried  the  stout  major. 
How  he  got  into  the  game  I  knew  not. 

"  It  is  a  mere  boy !  for  shame !  "  cried  the  colonel. 
"I  forbid  it." 

"  I  am  a  gentleman,"  I  said.  "  Thou  canst  order  thy 
officers ;  thou  canst  not  order  me,"  and  as  I  spoke  I  cast 
so  hard  that  I  crushed  the  box.  I  heard  some  one  cry, 
"  A  damn  pretty  Quaker !  By  George,  he  has  lost!  A 
clean  hundred  pounds ! "  Even  in  this  di'unken  revel 
there  was  a  pause  for  a  moment.  I  was,  after  all,  but 
a  tipsy  lad  of  twenty,  and  some  were  just  not  far 
enough  gone  to  feel  that  it  might  look  to  others  an 
ugly  business.  The  colonel  said  something  to  Major 
Milewood  as  to  disrespect,  I  hardly  know  what ;  for 
at  this  moment  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door. 
In  the  lull  that  followed  I  heard  the  colonel's  voice. 

Then  the  tumult  broke  out  anew.  ''  By  Jove,  it  is 
a  woman  !  "  cried  Wynne.  "  I  hear  her.  "Wine  and 
women !     A  guinea  to  a  guinea  she  's  pretty !  " 

"  Done  !  "  cried  some  one. 

"Here  's  the  key,"  said  the  major j  "let  's  have 
her  in." 

"  Place  mix  dames,"  hiccoughed  a  cornet. 

The  colonel  rose,  but  it  was  too  late.  Wynne, 
seizing  the  key,  unlocked  the  door  and  threw  it  wide 
open,  as  my  mother,  followed  by  Jack  Warder,  en- 
tered the  room,  and  stood  still  a  moment,  dazed. 

Captain  Wynne,  leering  and  unsteady,  caught  at 
her  waist,  exclaiming,  "By  George!  she  might  be 
younger,  but  I  've  won.  A  toast !  a  toast !  A  Quaker, 
by  George ! " 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       1 1  i 


Whether  I  was  sobered  or  not,  I  kuow  not.  I  can 
only  say  that  of  a  sudden  I  was  myself,  and  strangely 
quiet.  I  saw  the  dear  lady,  brave,  beautiful,  and 
with  her  curls  fidling  about  her  neck,  as  she  shrank 
back  fix)ni  the  niau's  toucli. 

''  Come,  Hugh,"  she  siiid. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  I  said  ;  "  but  first—"  and  I  struck 
Captain  Wynne  full  in  the  face,  so  that,  unprepared 
as  he  was,  he  fell  over  a  table  and  on  to  the  tloor 

Every  one  started  up.    There  was  instant  silenc* 

In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet,  and,  like  mjself, 
another  man.  Turning,  he  said,  with  anuiziug  coolness, 
wiping  the  blood  away,  for  I  was  strong,  and  had  hit 
hard,  "  Madiim,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  we  liave  been 
beha^-ing  like  beasts,  and  I  am  litly  punished.  As  to 
vou,  Mr.  Wvune,  vou  are  a  bov,  and  have  undert-aken 
to  rougli  it  with  men.     This  shall  go  no  further." 

**  It  shall  go  where  I  please,"  I  cried. 

"No,  no  ;  Hugh,  Hugh  !  "  said  my  mother. 

"  We  "will  talk  it  over  to-morrow,"  said  the  cap- 
tain ;  and  then,  turning,  "  I  mean,  gentlemen,  that 
this  shall  stop  here.  If  any  man  thinks  I  am  wrong, 
let  him  say  so.  I  shall  know  how  to  settle  accounts 
with  him." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  colonel ;  "  you  are  right,  and  if 
any  officer  thinks  otherwise,  I  too  am  at  his  service." 
In  the  silence  whicli  came  after  he  added,  "  Permit 
me,  madam ;"  and  offering  liis  arm  to  my  mother, 
we  follo^ving,  they  went  downstaii*s,  Jack  and  I  after 
them,  and  .so  into  the  street  and  the  reproachful  calm 
of  the  starlit  April  night. 


vm 

VEN  so  far  away  as  now,"  says  Jack, 
writing  in  after-daj^s,  "it  grieves  me 
to  tliink  of  that  winter,  and  of  this 
mad  scene  at  the  London  Coffee-liouse. 
When  I  saw  Hugh  go  in  with  the 
officers,  I  waited  for  an  hour,  and  then  went  away. 
Eeturning  later,  I  learned  that  he  was  still  upstau'S. 
I  felt  that  if  I  stayed  until  he  came  forth,  although 
he  might  not  be  in  a  way  to  talk  to  me,  to  know  that 
I  had  waited  so  long  might  touch  him  and  help  him 
to  hear  me  with  patience.  I  walked  to  and  fro 
until  the  clock  had  struck  twelve,  fearful  and  troubled 
like  a  woman.  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  like  a  woman 
in  certain  ways,  but  not  in  aU. 

"  There  were  many  people  who  loved  Hugh,  but, 
save  his  mother,  none  as  I  did.  He  had  a  serious 
kindliness  in  his  ways,  liking  to  help  people,  and  for 
me  at  certain  times  and  in  certain  crises  a  reassur- 
ing directness  of  swift  dealing  with  matters  in  hand, 
most  sustaining  to  one  of  my  hesitating  nature.  His 
courage  was  instinctive,  mine  the  result  of  obedi- 
ence to  my  will,  and  requmng  a  certain  resolute  effort. 
"I  think  of  him  always  as  in  time  of  peril,  thi'ow- 
ing  his  head  up  and  his  shoulders  back,  and  smiling, 

112 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker       1 1  3 

vrith.  very  wide-open  eyes,  like  his  mother'?,  but  a 
deeper  bhie.  The  frieuiiship  of  young:  men  has  often 
for  a  partijil  basis  admiration  of  physical  force,  and 
Hugh  excelled  me  there,  although  I  have  never  been 
considered  feeble  or  awkward  except  among  those 
of  anotlier  sex,  wliere  always  I  am  seen,  I  fear,  to 
disadvantage. 

"Just  after  twelve  I  saw  a  woman  coming  hastily 
up  Front  street.  As  she  came  to  a  pause  in  the  light 
which  streamed  from  the  open  door,  I  knew  her  for 
]Madam  Marie,  as  she  had  taught  me  to  call  her.  She 
wore  a  caUche  hood,  fallen  back  so  that  I  saw  her 
hair,  half  tumbled  from  under  the  thin  gauze  cap 
worn  on  the  top  of  the  head  by  most  Quakers,  She 
was  clad  quite  too  slightly,  and  had  for  wrap  only  a 
tliiu,  gray  silk  shawl. 

*^'Mon  Dieu ."  she  exclaimed.  'I  liad  to  come. 
Jack,  is  he  here?  Fl  faut  que  je  monte,  I  must  go 
upstaii*s.'  In  excitement  she  was  apt  to  talk  French, 
and  then  to  translate.  '  Let  me  go,'  said  I ;  but  she 
cried  out,  *No,  no  !  come ! ' 

"  There  were  many  rougli  folks  without,  and  otliers 
called  together  by  the  noise  above,  and  no  wonder.  I 
said, '  Come  in  ;  I  vn\\  go  up  with  thee.'  Slie  pushed 
me  aside,  and,  with  staring  eyes,  cried,  '  Oh  est  Ves- 
calier  f  As  we  went  through  the  coflfee-room,  the 
lounge i-s  looked  at  her  with  surprise.  She  followed 
me  without  more  words,  ran  by  me  on  the  stairs,  and 
in  a  moment  beat  fiercely  on  the  door,  cr^nng,  ^Ouvrez! 
open!  quifk  !'  Then  there  was  that  madliou.se  scene." 

And  this  was  how  it  came  about,  as  Jack  has  herr? 

8 


1 14      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

told,  that,  still  liot  and  angry,  but  mucli  sobered,  I, 
her  son,  walked  beside  my  mother  till  we  came  to  our 
door,  and  Jack  left  us,  saying : 

"  Wilt  thou  see  me  to-morrow  1 " 

I  said,  "  Yes.  God  bless  thee !  Thou  art  the  real 
son,"  and  we  entered. 

Then  it  was  sweet  to  see  her ;  she  said  no  word  of 
reproach  except,  "17  ne  faut  pas  me  donner  ton  haiser 
du  soir.  No,  no ;  I  am  not  to  be  kissed."  And  so  I 
went,  sorrowful  and  still  dizzy,  up  to  my  sleepless 
couch. 

At  the  first  gray  light  of  dawn  I  rose,  and  was  soon 
away  half  a  mile  from  shore  in  my  boat.  As  I  came 
up  from  my  first  plunge  in  the  friendly  river,  and 
brushed  the  water  from  my  eyes,  I  do  assui'e  you  the 
world  seemed  different.  The  water  was  very  cold, 
but  I  cared  nothing  for  that.  I  went  home  another 
and  a  better  man,  with  hope  and  trust  and  self-repose 
for  company.  That  hour  in  the  water  at  early  morn 
forever  after  seemed  to  me  a  mysterious  separation 
between  two  lives,  like  a  mighty  baptismal  change. 
Even  now  I  think  of  it  with  a  certain  awe. 

I  pulled  home  as  the  sun  rose,  and  lingered  about 
until  our  servants  came  in  for  the  early  worship  of 
the  day.  Soon  I  had  the  mother's  kiss,  and  under- 
went a  quick,  searching  look,  after  which  she  nodded 
gaily,  and  said,  "Est-ce  que  tout  est  Men,  monfils  9  Is  all 
well  with  thee,  my  son  ?"  I  said,  "Yes— yes."  I  heard 
her  murmm'  a  sweet  httle  prayer  in  her  beloved  French 
tongue.  Then  she  began  to  read  a  chapter.  I  looked 
up  amazed.     It  was  the  prodigal's  stori'. 


Huirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      ^:? 


-:> 


I  stood  it  ill,  thinkinir  it  hard  that  she  sliould  liave 
made  choice  of  that  ivproaclit'ul  {jurahk'.  I  stared 
sideways  out  at  the  stivain  and  the  ships,  but  lost  uo 
word,  as,  with  a  voice  that  broke  uow  and  then,  she 
read  the  piu-able  to  its  close.  After  this  should  have 
come  prayer,  silent  or  spoken ;  but,  to  my  surprise, 
she  said,  "  We  will  not  pray  this  morning:,"  and  we 
went  in  to  breakfast  at  once. 

As  for  me,  I  could  not  eat.  I  went  out  alone  to 
the  garden  and  sat  down.  I  knew  slie  would  come 
to  me  soon.  It  seemed  to  me  a  lunt;  while.  I  sat  on 
the  grass  against  a  tree,  an  old  cherry,  as  I  remem- 
ber, and  waited. 

I  can  see  her  coming  toward  me  under  the  trees, 
grave  and  quiet  and  sweet.  The  great  oeauty,  Sarah 
Lukens,  who  mamed  in  mid-war  the  gallant  Lennox, 
iLsed  to  say  of  my  mother  that  she  put  some  sugar 
into  all  her  moods ;  and  it  was  true.  I  have  seen  her 
an  "TV.  I  had  rather  have  faced  mv  father  in  his 
wildest  rage  than  her.  Wliy  was  she  not  angiy  now  ? 
She  had  vast  reason  for  dis})leasure.  After  men  have 
become  wise  enough  to  understand  woman,  I  protest 
there  will  remain  the  mother,  whom  no  man  will  ever 
comprehend. 

'■What  a  >»eautiful  day,  Hugh!  And  you  had  a 
good  swim  ?  was  it  cold  ?  Why  may  not  girls  swim  ? 
I  should  love  it." 

Next  she  was  be<?ide  me  on  the  gra.ss,  my  head  on 
her  bosom.  sayiiiL'.  with  a  little  sob,  as  if  she  had  done 
some  wrong  tiling: 

« I— I  did  not  choose  it,  dear  j  indeed  I  did  not.    It 


1 1 6      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

came  in  order  witli  the  day,  as  your  father  reads ; 
and  I— I  did  not  think  until  I  began  it,  and  then  I 
would  not  stop.  It  is  strange  for  it  to  so  chance.  I 
wonder  where  that  prodigal's  mother  was  aU  the 
while  ?  Oh,  you  are  better  than  that  wicked,  wicked 
prodigal.  I  never  would  have  let  him  go  at  all— 
never  if  I  could  have  helped  it,  I  mean.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
I  think  we  women  were  made  only  for  prayer  or  for 
forgiveness ;  we  can  stop  no  sin,  and  when  it  is  done 
can  only  cry,  *  Come  back !  come  back !   I  love  you ! ' " 

If  I  cried  on  that  tender  heart,  and  spoke  no  word, 
and  was  but  a  child  again,  I  am  sure  that  it  was  of 
aR  ways  the  best  to  tell  her  that  never  again  should 
she  be  hurt  by  any  act  of  mine. 

"  See,  there  is  Judith  at  the  door,  wondering  where 
I  am,"  she  said,  ^'  and  what  is  to  be  for  dinner.  I 
must  go  and  get  ready  the  fatted  calf.  Ah,  I  would 
not  have  left  one  alive.  Yes,  yes,  I  can  jest,  because 
I  am  no  more  afraid,  mmi  fils,  nor  ever  shall  be." 

Upon  this  I  would  have  said  something  of  my 
deep  shame,  and  of  the  swine  among  whom  I  had 
wallowed. 

"No,"  she  cried;  ^'c^esf  fini,  mon  cJier.  It  is  all 
over.  The  swine  will  eat  alone  hereafter."  She 
would  hear  no  more,  only  adding,  "As  for  me,  I 
want  to  be  told  once  how  brave  I  was.  Jack  said 
so ;  indeed  he  did.     I  ivas  brave,  was  I  not  ? " 

"  Don't,  dear  mother  !  please  !  I  cannot  bear  it." 
Somehow  this  plea,  so  childlike,  to  be  praised  for 
what  must  have  cost  so  much,  quite  overcame  me. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said ;  "  I  understand  thee,  and  I 


Huo:h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      117 

shall  always.  How  strong  thou  art,  tnon  fiU  !  I  was 
proud  of  thee,  even  in  that  sty  of  pigs  in  red  coats. 
And  he  behaved  like  a  geutlenum,  and  hath  wondrous 
self-command.     I  woidd  see  him  again  ;  who  is  he  ? " 

I  told  her  liis  name. 

"  Que  c'est  drdle.  That  is  cui'ious.  Thy  cousin ! 
No  doubt  we  shall  see  him  to-dav,  and  thv  father.  I 
shall  tell  him  all— all.     He  must  know." 

"  Yes,  he  must  know,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  will  tell  him 
myself," 

"  He  will  be  angry,  but  that  is  pai*t  of  thy  punish- 
ment." 

Then  I  tcld  her,  too,  I  had  lost  an  hundred  pounds, 
as  I  believed,  and  she  said : 

"  That  is,  after  all,  the  least.  There  are  pearls  of 
my  sister's  I  never  wear.  Thy  aunt  must  take  them 
and  pay  this  debt.  Go  now  to  thy  business  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  I  will  send  thee  the  pearls 
by  Tom.  No,  no  j  it  is  to  be  as  I  say  j  I  must  have 
my  way." 

What  could  I  do  ?  I  kissed  her,  and  we  parted. 
I  made  no  promises,  and  she  asked  for  none.  I 
like  to  think  of  how,  after  all,  I  left  with  her  this 
sense  of  quiet  trust. 

I  have  said  tliat  the  daily  march  of  events  never 
so  influenced  my  life  as  did  critical  occasions.  This 
was  surely  one  of  them.  I  do  not  now  regret  the 
knowledge  of  a  baser  world  wliich  I  thus  acquired. 
It  has  been  of  use  to  me,  and  to  some  with  whose  lives 
I  have  had  to  deal. 

Of  the  vs-rath  of  my  father,  when  I  hnmbly  con- 


I  iS       Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

fessed  my  sins,  it  is  not  needful  to  speak  at  length. 
For  business  calamities  he  was  ready  enough,  and 
lacked  not  decision;  but  in  this  matter  he  was,  as 
I  could  see,  puzzled.  He  strode  up  and  down,  a  great 
bulk  of  a  man,  opening  and  shutting  his  hands,  a 
trick  he  had  in  his  rare  moments  of  doubt  or  of 
intense  self -repression. 

"  I  know  not  what  to  do  with  thee,"  he  said  over 
and  over ;  "and  thou  didst  strike  the  man,  thy  cousin  ? 
Well,  well !  and  hm*t  him,  I  am  told  ?  And  he  did 
not  return  the  blow !  " 

I  had  not  said  so.  Thus  I  knew  that  other  busy 
tongues  had  been  at  work.  For  my  life,  I  could  not 
see  whether  he  looked  upon  the  blow  as  my  worst 
iniquity,  or  deep  in  his  heart  was  hardly  grieved  at  it. 

"  Thou  didst  strike  him  ?  I  must  consider  of  thee ; 
I  must  take  counsel.  Go !  thou  wilt  bring  my  gray 
hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave."  And  so  I  left  him, 
stUl  striding  to  and  fro,  with  ever  the  same  odd 
movement  of  his  hands.  He  took  counsel,  indeed, 
and  for  me  and  for  him  the  most  unwise  that  ever 
a  troubled  man  could  have  taken.  It  was  some  days 
before  this  unpleasant  scene  took  place,  and  mean- 
while I  had  seen  my  aunt. 

She  was  taking  snuff  furiously  when  I  entered, 
and  broke  out  at  once,  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
walking  about  in  a  terrible  rage.  My  mother  used 
to  say  that  tlie  first  thing  one  saw  of  my  Aunt 
Gainor  was  her  nose.  It  had  been  quite  too  much 
of  a  nose  for  the  rest  of  her  face,  until  gray  hair  and 
some  change  wrought  by  time  in  the  architecture  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       i  19 

her  fine  head  helped  to  mjike  it  more  in  harmony 
with  the  rest  of  her  features.  Somehow  it  arrested 
my  attention  now,  and  Heaven  knows  why  it  seemed 
to  me  more  odd  than  ewv. 

*'  This  is  a  fine  repentance  indt^d  !  "Uliat  are  you 
stiiriug  at,  you  fool  t  Here  has  been  that  wild  curlew, 
Bess  Ferg:uson,  with  an  awful  t-ale  of  how  you  have 
gambled  and  lost  an  hundred  pounds,  and  half  killed 
an  unlucky  cousin.  Who  tlie  deuce  is  the  man  ?  A 
nice  godchild  you  ai*e !  A  proper  rage  I  am  in,  and 
Dr.  Rush  tells  me  I  am  never  to  get  excited  !  You 
should  hear  Mi-s.  Galloway ;  duels  and  murder  are  the 
least  of  her  talk ;  and,  u])on  my  word,  you  know  no 
more  of  the  small  sword  than  of —I  know  not  what.  I 
must  send  you  to  Pike  for  lessons.    When  is  it  to  be  ? " 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  cried,  "  I  wish  all  these  Toiy 
cats  of  yours  were  dead  !  " 

At  this  she  broke  into  laughter,  and  sat  down. 

"  Cats  !  and  did  n't  they  miaow  !  That  sweet  girl- 
boy.  Jack  Warder,  has  been  here  too  ;  sent,  I  suppose, 
by  that  dear  Jesuit,  your  mother.  How  he  blushes ! 
I  hear  you  behaved  like  a  gentleman  even  in  your 
cups.  I  like  the  lad  ;  I  did  not  use  to.  He  is  a  manly 
miss.  Sit  down,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Bless  me  ! 
how  hot  I  am  !  " 

Upon  this  I  knew  I  had  won  my  battle,  and  went 
on  to  tell  the  whole  story.  AVlien  I  produced  my 
pearls,  of  wliich  I  was  hombly  ashamed,  .^he  broke 
out  anew,  declaring  we  were  all  mere  traders,  and 
did  we  think  her  a  pawnbroker?  and  ended  by  giving 
me  an  hundred  pounds,  and  bidding  me  to  be  care- 


I20      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


fill  and  pay  at  once,  as  it  was  a  debt  of  honour.  "  As 
to  the  pearls,  let  Madam  Marie  keep  them  for  thy 
wife." 

Thus  ended  a  sorry  business.  It  was  to  be  told, 
and  I  have  told  it ;  but  none,  not  even  my  mother 
or  Jack,  knew  how  deep  a  mark  it  left  upon  my 
character,  or  how  profoundly  it  affected  my  life. 

My  friend  Jack  shall  say  the  requiescat  of  this 
chapter  of  my  life,  which  I  have  so  unwillingly  re- 
corded. There  was  one  more  thing  needed  to  com- 
plete its  misery.     Says  Jack : 

"Hugh  Wynne  and  I  fell  apart  this  last  winter 
of  '72  and  '73.  It  was  my  fault."  This  I  do  not 
understand.  "Came  then  that  hideous  night  in 
April,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  Hugh  I  saw  the  day 
after,  and  begged  him  to  forgive  me  because  I  had 
so  easily  deserted  him.  I  took  him  later  a  kind 
message  from  Mr.  James  Wilson ;  for  our  small  city 
knew  it  all.  Friends  looked  at  him  as  one  disgraced, 
except  Friend  Rupert  Forest,  who,  to  my  amuse- 
ment, seemed  to  enjoy  to  hear  the  whole  story,  say- 
ing, '  Alas !  alas ! '  and  yet,  as  I  saw,  far  more  pleased 
than  distressed.  It  brought  to  my  mind  the  battle 
he  had  set  us  to  fight  out  when  we  were  boys.  For 
a  week  or  two  Hugh  was  dispmted,  but  after  that, 
when  the  colonel  had  called,  and  his  cousin,  Arthur 
Wynne,  began  to  be  more  and  more  with  him,  he 
took  heart,  and  faced  our  little  world,  and  would  let 
no  one,  except  myself,  say  a  word  to  him  of  the  time 
of  his  downfall ;  this  I  think  I  never  did,  save  per- 
haps once,  and  that  long  after. 


Hiii^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       121 

'•There  was  no  need  to  preaeh.  Converted  devils 
miike  tiie  best  saints.  I  never  was  iis  good  u«  Hugh, 
because  I  lacked  courasre  to  be  wicked.  Hugh  was 
no  saint,  but  he  drank  no  more  for  a  long  while,  and 
was  ever  after  moderate.  As  to  cards  and  dice,  it 
was  much  the  same." 

What  Jack  has  here  writt^»n  is  all  nonsense.  He 
was  a  better  man  than  I,  and  never  was  nor  could 
have  been  a  bad  one. 


IX 

HAVE  said  that  one  event  had  to  be  re- 
corded  before  I  completed  the  story  of 
that  episode  of  which  I  was  weary  of 
hearing.  My  father — and  it  was  against 
all  his  habits  in  regard  to  most  matters 
—reminded  me  almost  daily  of  my  misdeeds.  He 
hoped  I  did  not  drink  any  more,  and  he  would  even 
look  at  the  square  flasks  on  the  shelf  to  see,  as  I 
suspected,  if  they  had  been  used.  To  be  prayed  for 
was  worst  of  all,  and  this  he  did  more  than  once. 
It  was  all  of  it  unwise,  and  but  for  my  mother  I 
should  have  been  even  more  unhappy.  I  can  see 
now  that  my  father  was  this  while  in  distress,  feehng 
that  he  must  do  something,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  do. 

In  his  business  life  there  had  always  been  a  way 
opened,  as  Friends  say.  He  did  not  see  that  what 
I  needed  was  what  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  give, 
and  thus  it  came  about  that  we  drew  apart,  and  per- 
haps neither  then  nor  at  any  later  time  were,  or  could 
ever  have  been,  in  the  kindlier  relation  which  makes 
the  best  of  friendships  that  of  the  grown-up  son  with 
the  elderly  father. 
At  last,  after  a  month  or  more,  when  it  was  far 

122 


Hugh  \\  viine:  Free  Quaker       123 

on  in  June,  he  ceased  to  trouble  me,  and  to  walk  up 
and  down,  opening  and  shutting  his  hands,  as  he 
recounted  my  sins.  He  had  i*eached  un  unfortunate 
decision,  of  wliich  I  was  soon  to  feel  the  results. 

In  tlie  nu'au  time  my  cousin,  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne, 
had  come  into  very  close  iutinuicy  with  idl  our  family 
circle.  As  he  had  much  to  do  with  my  later  life,  it 
is  well  to  return  a  little,  and  to  detail  here  what  fol- 
lowed after  the  night  of  my  mother's  visit  to  the 
coffee-house. 

Next  day,  in  the  evening,  came  the  colonel  of  the 
Scots  Grays,  and  desired  to  see  me  in  the  sitting. 
room,  my  father  being  still  in  Lancaster. 

'Olr.  Wynne,"  he  said,  "Captain  Wynne  has 
asked  me  to  call  in  reference  to  that  unhappy  busi- 
ness of  last  night.  He  begs  to  make  his  excuses 
to  Mrs.  Wynne  in  this  letter,  which  may  I  ask 
you  to  deliver?  And  after  this  action  on  his  part 
1  trust  you  wiU  see  your  way  to  regret  the  blow  you 
struck." 

I  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  feeling  that  I  must  be 
careful  what  answer  I  made.  "  I  cannot  feel  sorry," 
I  said  ;  "  I  do  not  i-egrt't  it." 

"  That  is  a  pity,  Mr.  Wynne.  You  should  remem- 
ber that  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne  could  not  have  known 
who  the  lady  was.  A  blow  is  a  thing  no  gentle- 
man can,  as  a  rule,  submit  to  ;  but  this  has  been  dis- 
cussed by  Sir  William  Draper  and  myself,  and  we 
feel  that  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne  cannot  challenge  a  boy 
of  eighteen." 

"  I  am  twenty,"  I  replied. 


124      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  Pardon  me— of  twenty,  who  is  his  cousin.  That 
is  the  real  point  I  would  make.  You  have  the  best 
of  it.  You  were  right,  quite  right ;  but,  by  St.  George, 
you  are  a  hard  hitter!  Mr.  Wynne  would  have 
come  in  person,  but  he  is  hardly  fit  to  be  seen, 
and  a  sign-painter  is  just  now  busy  painting  his  eye- 
lids and  cheek,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  appear  out 
of  doors." 

The  colonel  treated  me  with  the  utmost  respect, 
and,  as  a  young  fellow  naturally  would  be,  I  was 
embarrassed  more  than  a  little,  but  not  at  all  dissat- 
isfied with  the  condition  of  my  cousin.  I  said  awk- 
wardly that  if  he  was  willing  to  forget  it  I  supposed 
I  ought  to  be. 

"I  think  so,"  said  the  colonel.  "Suppose  you 
leave  it  with  me,  and  in  a  day  or  two  talk  it  over 
with  him.  Indeed,  he  is  a  most  charming  gentleman, 
and  a  worthy  member  of  a  good  old  house." 

I  said  I  would  leave  it  with  the  colonel,  and  upon 
this  he  said,  "  Good-by,  and  come  and  dine  with  the 
mess  some  day,  but  don't  hit  any  more  of  us ;"  and 
so,  laughing,  he  went  away,  leaving  me  flattered,  but 
with  the  feeling  that  somehow  he  had  gotten  the  bet- 
ter of  me. 

My  mother  declared  it  was  a  beautiful  letter,  writ 
prettily,  but  ill-speiled  (neither  George  the  king  nor 
our  own  George  could  spell  well).  She  would  not 
let  me  see  it.  I  did  years  afterward.  In  it  he  spoke 
of  me  as  a  boy,  and  she  was  cunning  enough  to  know 
that  I  should  not  like  that. 

It  was  a  week  before  we  saw  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      125 

My  father  had  meanwhile  vented  his  first  wrath  on 
me,  and  I  was  slowly  getting  over  the  strong  sense  of 
disgust,  shame,  contrition,  and  anger,  and  had  set- 
tled down  earnestly  to  my  work.  I  hardly  recognised 
the  man  who  came  in  on  us  after  supper,  as  my 
mother  and  I  sat  in  the  orchard,  with  my  father  in  a 
better  humour  tluui  of  late,  and  smoking  a  churchwar- 
den, which,  you  nuiy  like  to  know,  wjis  a  long  clay 
pipe.  The  smoke  sailed  peacef  uUy  up,  as  I  sat  look- 
ing at  its  blue  smoke-rings.  How  often  since  have 
I  seen  them  float  from  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and 
thought  of  my  father  and  his  pipe ! 

We  discussed  the  state  of  trade,  and  now  and  then 
I  read  aloud  bits  from  the  Boston  "Packet''  of  two 
weeks  btvck,  or  my  mother  spoke  of  their  September 
voyage,  and  of  what  would  be  needed  for  it,  a  voyage 
being  looked  upon  as  a  serious  affair  in  those  times. 

"I  found  your  doors  hosi)ital)ly  open,"  said  the 
captain,  appearing,  "and  the  servant  said  I  should  find 
you  here ;  so  I  have  taken  my  welcome  for  granted, 
and  am  come  to  make  my  most  humble  excuses  to 
Mrs.  Wynne.'' 

We  all  rose  as  lie  drew  near,  my  mother  saying 
in  my  ear  iis  he  approa<'hed,  ''It  is  i\j'thur  Wynne. 
Now,  Hugh,  take  C4ire  !  " 

This  newly  found  cousin  was,  like  all  of  us,  tall, 
but  not  quite  so  broad  as  we  other  Wynnes.  He 
was  of  swarthy  complexion  from  long  service  in  the 
East,  and  had  blaek  hair,  not  fine,  but  rather  coarse. 
I  noticed  u  scar  on  his  forehead.  He  shook  hands, 
using  his  left  hand,  because,  as  I  learned,  of  awkward- 


126      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

iiess  from  an  old  wound.  But  with  his  left  he  was 
an  expert  swordsman,  and,  like  left-handed  swords- 
men, the  more  dangerous. 

"We  are  glad  to  see  thee,  Cousin  Wynne,"  said 
my  mother. 

Seeing  the  marks  of  my  handiwork  still  on  his 
cheek,  I  took  his  greeting  with  decent  cordiality,  and 
said,  "Sit  down;  wilt  thou  smoke  a  pipe,  Cousin 
Arthur?" 

He  said  he  did  not  smoke,  and  set  himself,  with 
the  address  of  a  man  used  to  a  greater  world  than 
ours,  to  charm  those  whom  no  doubt  he  considered 
to  be  quite  simple  folk.  In  a  few  minutes  the  un- 
pleasantness of  the  situation  was  over.  He  and  my 
father  were  at  one  about  politics,  and  I  wisely  held 
my  peace.  He  let  fall  a  discreet  sentence  or  two 
about  the  habits  of  soldiers,  and  his  own  regrets, 
and  then  said,  laughing : 

"  Your  son  is  not  quite  of  your  views  as  a  Friend 
in  regard  to  warfare." 

"  My  son  is  a  hasty  young  man,"  said  my  father, 
and  I  felt  my  mother's  touch  on  my  arm. 

Our  cousin  was  in  no  way  upset  by  this.  He  said, 
"  No,  no,  cousin ;  he  is  young,  but  not  hasty.  I  was 
fitly  dealt  with.  We  are  hot-blooded  people,  we 
Wynnes.  The  ways  of  Friends  are  not  our  ways  of 
dealing  with  an  injury ;  and  it  was  more— I  wish  to 
say  so— it  was  an  insult.     He  was  right." 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  insult  in  the  matter/* 
said  my  father.  "  We  may  insult  the  great  Master, 
but  it  is  not  for  man  to  resent  or  punish." 


Hugli  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       127 

"  I  fear  as  to  that  we  shall  continue  to  differ."  He 
spoke  with  the  utmost  deference.  '*Do  you  go  to  Wyn- 
cote  1   I  hear  you  are  for  England  in  the  autumn." 

"No;  I  shall  be  too  full  of  business.  Wyncote 
has  no  great  interest  for  me." 

"Indeed?  It  might  perhaps  disappoint  you— a 
tumble-down  old  house,  an  embarrassed  estate.  My 
brother  will  get  but  a  small  income  when  it  falls  to 
him.  My  father  fights  cocks  and  dogs,  rides  to 
hounds,  and,  I  grieve  to  say,  drinks  hard,  like  all  our 
Welsh  squires." 

I  was  surprised  at  his  frank  statement.  My  mother 
watched  him  eiu-iously,  with  those  attentive  blue  eyes, 
as  my  father  returned : 

"  Of  a  certainty,  thou  dost  not  add  to  my  induce- 
ments to  visit  Wj-ncote.  I  should,  I  fear,  be  sadly 
out  of  place." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  but  too  true,  unless  your  head 
is  better  than  mine.  Wo  are  a  sad  set,  we  Wynnes. 
All  the  i»rosix'rity,  and  1  foar  much  of  the  decency 
of  the  family,  crossed  the  ocean  long  ago." 

"  Yet  I  sliould  like  to  see  Wj-ncot*,"  said  I.  "  I 
think  thou  didst  tell  me  it  is  not  thy  home." 

"  No ;  a  soldier  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  a  home ; 
and  a  younger  brother,  with  a  tough  father  alive, 
and  an  elder  brother  on  an  impoverished  estate,  must 
needs  be  a  wanderer." 

"  But  we  shall  make  thee  welcome  here,"  said  my 
father,  with  grave  kindness.  "We  are  jihiin  people, 
and  live  simi)ly ;  but  a  Wynne  should  always  find, 
as  we  used  to  say  here,  the  latch-string  outside." 


128      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

With  a  little  more  talk  of  the  Wynnes,  the  captain, 
declining  to  remain  longer,  rose,  and,  turning  to  me, 
said,  "  I  hear,  Cousin  Hugh,  that  you  refused  to  say 
that  you  were  sorry  for  the  sharp  lesson  you  gave  me 
the  other  night.  I  have  made  my  peace  with  your 
mother." 

"  I  shall  see  that  my  son  behaves  hiniseK  m  future. 
Thou  hast  heard  thy  cousin,  Hugh  ? " 

I  had,  and  I  meant  to  make  it  up  with  him,  but  my 
father's  effort  as  a  peacemaker  did  not  render  my 
course  the  more  easy.  Still,  with  the  mother-eyes 
on  me,  I  kept  my  temper. 

"  I  was  about  to  say  thou  hast  done  all  a  man  can 
do,"  said  I. 

"  Then  let  us  shake  hands  honestly,"  he  repHed, 
''and  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

I  saw  both  my  parents  glance  at  me.  "  I  should 
be  a  brute  if  I  did  not  say  yes,  and  mean  it,  too ;  but 
I  cannot  declare  that  I  am  sorry,  except  for  the  whole 
business."  And  with  this  I  took  his  left  hand,  a 
variety  of  the  commonplace  ceremony  which  always, 
to  my  last  knowledge  of  Captain  Wynne,  affected  me 
unpleasantly. 

He  laughed.  ''  They  call  us  in  Merionethshire  the 
wilful  W\Tines.  You  will  find  me  a  good  friend  if 
you  don't  want  the  things  I  want,  I  am  like  most 
younger  brothers,  inclined  to  want  things.  I  thank 
you  all  for  a  pleasant  hour.  It  is  like  home,  or  better." 
With  this  he  bowed  low  to  my  mothei-'s  curtsey,  and 
went  away,  chatting  as  I  conducted  him  to  the  door, 
and  promising  to  sail  with  me,  or  to  fi^h. 


HughW^'nne:  Free  Quaker      129 

Naturally  enough,  on  my  rehirn  I  found  my  parents 
discussiiug  our  newly  I'uuud  relative.  ^ly  mother 
tliought  he  talked  much  of  himself,  and  had  been 
pleasimt<.'r  if  he  had  not  spoken  so  frankly  of  his 
father.  My  father  said  little,  except  that  there  seemed 
to  be  good  in  the  young  num. 

"Why  should  we  not  forgive  that  in  him  which 
we  must  forgive  in  our  own  son  ? " 

My  father  had  some  dreadful  power  to  hurt  me, 
and  to  mo  only  was  lie  an  unjust  man ;  this  may 
have  been  because  my  wrong-doing  troubled  both 
his  patornjd  and  his  sj)iritual  pride.  I  was  al)out 
to  say  that  there  was  little  likeness  between  my  sin 
and  that  of  my  cousin ;  but  I  saw  my  mother,  as  she 
stood  a  little  back  of  my  father's  great  bulk,  shake 
her  head,  and  I  held  my  tongue.     Not  so  she. 

"  If  thou  hadst  been  a  woman  in  my  place,  John 
Wynne,  tliou  wouldst  be  far  from  sayiug  the  thing 
thou  hiLst  sjiid." 

Never  hml  I  heard  or  seen  in  our  house  a  thing 
like  this.  I  saw,  in  the  fatling  light,  my  father  work- 
ing his  hands  as  I  have  described,  a  signal  of  re- 
strained anger,  and,  like  anything  j)liysically  unus' 
ual  in  one  we  love,  not  quite  pleasant  to  see.  But 
my  mother,  who  knew  not  fear  of  him  nor  of  any, 
went  on,  desj)ite  hi.s  saying,  "This  is  unseemly— un- 
seemly, wife." 

"  Thou  art  unjust,  John,  to  my  son." 

"  Thy  son  T " 

"Yes ;  mine  as  well  as  tliine.  I  have  faith  tliat  thou, 
even  thou,  John,  wouldst  have  done  as  my  boy  did." 


130      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  I  ?  I  ? "  he  cried ;  and  now  I  saw  that  he  was  dis- 
turbed, for  he  was  moving  his  feet  hke  some  proud, 
restrained  horse  pawing  the  grass.  At  last  he 
broke  the  stillness  which  followed  Ms  exclamations : 
"There  is  but  one  answer,  wife.  Both  have  been 
brutes,  but  this  boy  has  been  kept  near  to  godly 
things  all  his  life.  Each  First-day  the  tongues  of 
righteous  men  have  taught  him  to  live  clean,  to  put 
away  wrath,  to  love  his  enemies;  and  in  a  day — a 
minute— it  is  gone,  and,  as  it  were,  useless,  and  I  the 
shame  of  the  town." 

I  hoped  this  was  all ;  but  my  mother  cried,  "  John  ! 
John !  It  is  thy  pride  that  is  hiu*t.  No,  it  is  not 
seemly  to  dispute  with  thee,  and  before  thy  son.  And 
yet— and  yet— even  that  is  better  than  to  let  him  go 
with  the  thought  that  he  is  altogether  like,  or  no  better 
than,  that  man.  If  thou  hast  a  duty  to  bear  testi- 
mony, so  have  I."  And  thus  the  mother  of  the  prod- 
igal son  had  her  say.  No  doubt  she  found  it  hard, 
and  I  saw  her  dash  the  tears  away  with  a  quick  hand, 
as  she  added,  "  If  I  have  hurt  thee,  John,  I  am  sorry." 

"  There  is  but  one  answer,  wife.  Love  thy  enemy ; 
do  good  to  them  that  despitefuUy  use  thee.  Thou 
wilt  ruin  thy  son  with  false  kindness,  and  who  shall 
save  him  from  the  pit  ? " 

I  turned  at  last  in  a  storm  of  indignation,  crying, 
"  Could  I  see  my  mother  treated  like  a  street-wench 
or  a  gutter-drab,  and  lift  no  hand?  I  wish  I  had 
killed  him ! " 

"  See,  wife,"  said  my  father.  "  Yes,  even  this  was 
to  be  borne." 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker       i  3  i 

"  Not  by  me !  "  I  cried,  aud  strode  into  the  house, 
"woudering  if  ever  I  was  to  be  done  with  it. 

The  day  after  no  one  of  us  showed  a  siiifu  of  this 
outbreak.  Never  had  I  seen  the  Ulce  of  it  aiuonc:  us ; 
but  the  Quaker  habit  of  absohite  self-repression,  and 
of  concealment  of  emotion  again  prevjiiled,  so  that 
at  breakfast  we  met  as  usual,  and,  whatever  we  may 
have  felt,  there  was  no  outward  evidence  of  my 
motlier's  just  auger,  of  my  father's  bitterness,  or  of 
my  own  disgust. 


WAS  not  yet  to  see  the  end  of  my  ini- 
quity, and  was  to  feel  the  consequences  in 
ways  which,  for  many  a  day,  influenced 
my  life  and  actions. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  June.  The 
feeling  of  uneasiness  and  dread  was  becoming  more 
and  more  felt,  not  only  in  commerce,  which  is  so  sen- 
sitive, but  also  in  the  social  relations  of  men.  The 
king-'s  officers  were  more  saucy,  and,  like  all  soldiers, 
eager  for  active  service,  imagining  an  easy  victory 
over  a  people  untrained  in  war.  Such  Tory  pam- 
phleteers as  the  foul-tongued  Massachusetts  writer, 
Daniel  Leonard,  were  answering  "  Vindex "  (Mr. 
Adams)  and  the  widely  read  letters  of  "  An  American 
Farmer."  The  plan  of  organised  correspondence 
between  the  colonies  began  to  be  felt  in  some  ap- 
proach to  unity  of  action,  for  at  this  time  the  out- 
spoken objection  to  the  views  of  the  king  and  his 
facile  minister  was  general,  and  even  men  like  Gal- 
loway, Chew,  the  Aliens,  and  John  Penn  stood  with 
varying  degrees  of  good  will  among  those  who  were 
urging  resistance  to  oppression.  As  yet  the  too 
mighty  phantom  of  independence  had  not  appeared 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       13^ 

on  the  horizon  of  our  stormy  i)olitics,  to  scare  the 
timid,  tiud  to  consolidate  our  own  resistance. 

I  worked  hard  with  my  father  at  our  lessening 
and  complicated  business,  riding  far  into  the  country 
to  collect  debts,  often  with  Jack,  who  had  like  er- 
rands to  do,  and  with  whom  I  discussed  tlie  topics 
which  were  so  often,  and  not  always  too  amiably,  in 
question  at  my  Aunt  Gainor's  table.  I  was  just 
now  too  busy  to  be  much  with  mv  old  favourites,  the 
officers.  Indeed,  I  was  wise  enough  to  keep  away 
from  them. 

^Iv  cousin  I  saw  often,  both  at  mv  aunt's,  as  I  shall 
relate,  and  elsewhere ;  for  he  came  much  to  our  house, 
and  my  father  found  it  agreeable  to  ttdk  over  with 
him  the  news  of  the  day.  ^My  mother  did  not  like 
him  as  well,  but  she  held  her  peace,  and,  like  eveiy 
other  man.  he  was  attracted  by  her  gaiety,  and  quaint 
way  of  looking  at  men  and  things. 

Mr.  Wilson  I  saw  at  times,  as  he  still  had,  I  know 
not  why,  a  fancy  for  me,  and  loved  well  to  sail  with 
me  of  evenings  over  to  Kaighn's  Point  to  fish,  or 
down  to  Gloucester  to  bob  for  crabs.  I  owed  him 
much.  A  profound  knowledge  of  law,  variety  of 
reading,  and  a  mind  which  left  broadly  on  our  after- 
history  the  marks  of  his  powerful  intellect,  were  at 
mv  ser\'ice.  He  u.«ed  to  caution  me  how  I  spoke  of 
his  opinions  to  ot}H'i*s.  and  he  would  then  discuss  with 
freedom  politics  and  the  men  wIkjsc  figinx'S  were  fast 
rising  into  distinctness  as  leaders  to  be  hstened  to  and 
trusted.  Many  of  them  he  knew,  and  thus  first  I  heard 
clejirly  what  manner  of  persons  were  Patrick  Ileurj' 


134      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

and  the  Adamses,  Dickinson,  Peyton  Randolph,  and 
others  less  prominent.  In  this  way  I  came  to  be  more 
and  more  confirmed  in  the  opinions  my  Aunt  Gainor 
so  resolutely  held,  and  also  more  careful  how  I  ex- 
pressed them.  Indeed,  although  but  twenty  years  of 
age,  I  was  become  quite  suddenly  an  older  and  graver 
man.  Mr.  Wilson  surprised  me  one  day  by  saying 
abruptly,  as  he  pulled  up  a  reluctant  crab,  "  Do  you 
never  think,  Hugh,  that  we  shall  have  war  ?  " 

I  was  indeed  amazed,  and  said  so.  Then  he  added, 
"  It  win  come.  My  place  will  not  be  in  the  field, 
but,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you  will  see  battles. 
You  were  made  for  a  soldier,  Hugh,  Quaker  or  no 
Quaker." 

I  thought  it  odd  that  two  people  as  different  as  my 
Aunt  Gainor  and  he  should  have  the  same  belief 
that  we  were  drifting  into  war.  She  had  said  to  me 
the  night  before  that  she  had  known  Lord  North  as 
a  boy,  and  that  the  king  was  an  obstinate  Dutchman, 
and  would  make  his  minister  go  his  way,  adding, 
"  Wlien  it  comes  you  will  be  in  it ;  you  can't  escape." 

No  one  else  whom  I  knew  had  any  such  belief, 
Wilson's  views  and  prediction  sent  me  home  thought- 
ful enough. 

That  evening  my  father  said  to  me,  "We  go  to 
Merion  the  day  after  to-morrow."  It  was  there  we 
spent  our  summers.  ''To-morrow  wiU  be  Fourth- 
day.  It  is  our  last  day  of  Meeting  in  the  town.  There 
will,  perhaps,  be  some  wise  words  said  as  to  present 
confusions,  and  I  wish  thee  to  hear  them,  my  son." 

I  said,  "  Yes ;  at  seven,  father  ? "    I  was,  however, 


Hugh  W^'nne:  Free  Quaker       1-^5 

astonished;  for  these  occasional  night  Meetings  in 
the  middle  of  the  week  were  but  rarely  attended  by 
the  younger  Friends,  and,  although  opened  with  sueh 
religious  observances  as  the  society  affected,  were 
chiefly  reserved  for  business  and  questions  of  disci- 
pline. I  had  not  the  least  desire  to  go,  but  there  was 
no  help  for  it. 

Our  supper  took  place  at  six  on  this  Wednesday, 
a  little  earher  than  usual,  and  I  observed  that  mv 
father  drank  severid  cups  of  tea,  which  was  not  his 
habit.  Few  people  took  tea  since  the  futile  tax 
had  been  set  upon  it;  but  my  father  continued  to 
drink  it,  and  would  have  no  concealment,  as  was  the 
custom  with  some  Whigs,  who  in  public  professed 
to  be  opposed  to  the  views  of  the  crown  as  to  the 
right  to  collect  indirect  taxes. 

Seeing  that  I  did  not  drink  it,  and  knowing  that 
I  liked  nothing  bettt-r  than  a  good  dish  of  tea,  he 
asked  me  why  I  did  not  partake  of  it.  Not  willing 
to  create  new  trouble,  I  said  I  did  not  want  any. 
He  urged  the  matter  no  fmther,  but  I  saw  he  was 
not  well  pleased.  We  set  off  soon  after  in  silence, 
he  walking  with  hands  behind  his  back  clasping  his 
gold-headed  cane,  his  collarless  coat  and  waistcoat 
below  his  beaver,  and  the  gray  hair  in  a  thick  mass 
between.  He  wore  shoes,  fine  dral)  short-clothes, 
and  black  silk  stockings,  all  without  buckles;  and 
ht;  moved  rapi<lly,  nodding  to  those  he  met  on  the 
way,  to  the  Bank  Meeting-house,  in  Front  Street, 
above  Arch. 

It  was  a  simple,  one-story,  brick  building,  set  a 


136      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  roadway.  The  gables 
and  shutters  were  painted  white,  as  was  also  the 
plain  Doric  doorway,  which  had  a  piUar  on  each 
side.  I  Judged  by  the  number  of  both  sexes  enter- 
ing that  it  was  an  unusual  occasion.  There  were 
many  di*ab-coated  men,  and  there  were  elderly  women, 
in  gowns  of  drab  or  gray,  with  white  silk  shawls 
and  black  silk-covered  cardboard  bonnets.  Here  and 
there  a  man  or  woman  was  in  gayer  colours  or  wore 
buckles,  and  some  had  silver  buttons ;  but  these  were 
rare.  The  Meeting-room  was,  so  to  speak,  a  large 
oblong  box  with  whitewashed  walls.  A  broad 
passage  ran  from  the  door  to  the  farther  end;  on 
the  right  of  it  sat  the  men,  on  the  left  the  women ; 
against  the  remoter  wall,  facing  the  rude  benches, 
were  three  rows  of  seats,  one  above  the  other.  On 
these  sat  at  the  back  the  elders,  and  in  front  of 
them  the  overseers.  The  clerk  of  the  Meeting  had 
a  little  desk  provided  for  him.  Over  their  heads 
was  a  long  sounding-board. 

To  me  the  scene  had  been  familiar  for  years ;  but 
to-day  it  excited  my  attention  because  of  an  air  of 
expectation,  and  even  of  excitement,  among  the  few 
more  youthful  Friends.  I  saw,  as  we  entered,  furtive 
glances  cast  at  my  father  and  myself ;  but  as  to  this 
I  had  grown  to  be  of  late  more  or  less  indifferent,  and 
had  no  anticipation  of  what  was  to  follow  later. 

I  had  become,  since  my  sad  downfall,  a  more  serious 
and  thoughtful  young  man,  and  far  better  fitted  to 
feel  the  beauty  and  the  spirituality  of  these  Meetings 
than  I  had  been  before.    When  the  doors  were  closed 


Hugli  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       137 

I  sat  silent  in  ])rayer ;  for  some  ten  minutes  inereas- 
iug  stillness  came  ui)on  one  and  all  of  the  three  or 
four  hundred  people  here  met  toirether. 

As  I  waited,  with  lonp-trnined  })atieiiee,  for  full 
twenty  minutes,  a  yet  deeper  quiet  fell  on  the 
ligures  seated  on  each  side  of  the  aisle.  For  a 
time  none  of  the  men  uncovered,  but  soon  a  few 
took  off  their  broad  hats,  having  remained  with 
them  on  their  heads  long  enough  to  satisfy  cus- 
tom by  this  protest  against  the  ways  of  other  men. 
The  hu'ger  number  kept  their  hats  on  their  heads. 
Then  a  strange  incident  took  place:  a  woman  of 
middle  age,  but  gi'ay,  her  hair  fallen  about  her 
shoulders,  entered  n<»isily,  and,  standing  before  the 
elders,  cried  out  in  a  loud  voice,  as  though  in  afflic- 
tion and  sore  distress,  "See  to  your  standing;  tlie 
Lord  is  about  to  search  and  examine  your  camp. 
Ho !  ye  of  little  faith  and  less  wt»rks,  the  hand  of 
God  is  come  upon  you— the  mighty  hand  of  punish- 
ment." As  she  spake  thus  wildly  she  swayed  to  and 
fro,  and  seemed  to  me  disordered  in  mind.  Finally 
she  passed  a<*ro.ss  the  space  in  front  of  the  ovei*seei*s, 
to  the  women's  side,  and  then  back  again,  repeating 
her  mad  language.  My  Aunt  Gainor's  gi'cat  bronze 
Buddha  was  not  more  motionless  tlian  they  who  sat 
on  the  eldei*s'  seats.  At  last  the  woman  faced  the 
Meeting,  and  went  down  the  aisle,  waving  her  hands, 
and  crying  out,  "  I  shall  have  peace,  ])eace,  in  thus 
having  discharged  my  Lord's  errand."  The  many 
there  met  did  justice  to  their  discijdine.  Scarce  a 
face  showed  the  surprise  all  must  have  felt   No  one 


138      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

turned  to  see  her  go  out,  or  seemed  to  hear  the  door 
banged  furiously  after  her.  The  covered  heads  re- 
mained silent  and  undisturbed ;  the  rows  of  deep 
bonnets  were  almost  as  moveless.  Fully  ten  minutes 
of  perfect  silence  followed  this  singular  outburst. 
Then  I  saw  the  tall,  gaunt  figure  of  Nicholas  Wain 
rise  slowly,  a  faint  but  pleasant  smile  on  his  severe 
face,  while  he  looked  about  him  and  began : 

"  Whether  what  ye  have  heard  be  of  God  I  cannot 
say.  The  time  hath  troubled  many  souls.  The  woman, 
Sarah  Harris,  who  hath^  as  some  are  aware,  borne 
many  sweet  and  pleasing  testimonies  to  Friends  in 
Wilmington,  I  know  not.  Whether  what  ye  have 
heard  be  of  God  or  but  a  rash  way  of  speech,  let  us 
feel  that  it  is  a  warninsr  to  Friends  here  assembled 
that  we  be  careful  of  what  we  say  and  do.  It  hath 
been  borne  in  upon  me  that  Friends  do  not  fully 
understand  one  another,  and  that  some  are  moved 
to  wrath,  and  some  inclined  to  think  that  Friends 
should  depart  from  their  ways  and  question  that 
which  hath  been  done  by  the  rulers  God  hath  set  over 
us.  Let  us  be  careful  that  our  General  Epistles  lean 
not  to  the  aiding  of  corrupt  and  wicked  men,  who  are 
leading  weak-minded  persons  into  paths  of  violence." 
And  here  he  sat  down. 

A  moment  later  got  up  Tliomas  Scattergood,  grim 
and  dark  of  visage.  None  of  his  features  expressed 
the  slightest  emotion,  although  even  from  the  begin- 
ning he  spoke  with  vehemence  and  his  body  rocked 
to  and  fro. 

"  The  days  are  darkening ;  the  times  are  e\'Tl.  Our 
master,  set  over  us  by  God,  has  seen  fit  to  tax  cer- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      139 

tain  commodities,  that  means  may  be  raised  for  the 
just  govenimeut  of  these  eolouies,  where  we  aud  our 
fathers  have  prospered  iu  our  worldly  goods,  under 
a  rule  that  ha^j  left  us  free  to  worship  (jod  as  seems 
best  to  us.  Aud  now  we  are  bid  by  men,  not  of  our 
society,  ungodly  self-seekei-s,  sons  of  darkness,  to 
unite  with  tJiem  iu  the  way  of  resistance  to  the  law. 
There  have  even  been  found  here  among  us  those 
who  have  signed  agreements  to  disobey  such  as  ai'e 
set  over  us,  unmindful  of  the  order  to  render  to  Ctesar 
that  which  is  his.  Let  there  be  among  Friends  neither 
feiu'  nor  any  shortcoming.  Let  us  bear  testimony 
against  evil-doers,  whether  they  be  of  us  or  not.  Let 
us  cut  down  and  utt^'rly  cast  forth  those  who  depart 
from  righteousness.  Are  they  not  of  the  scum  which 
riseth  on  the  boding  j)ot  ?  There  is  a  time  for  P^riends 
to  remonstrate,  and  a  time  to  act.  I  fear  lest  these 
too  gentle  counsels  of  Friend  Wain  be  out  of  time 
and  out  of  place.  Away  with  those  who,  hearing, 
heed  not.  Let  them  be  dealt  with  as  they  should  be, 
with  love  for  the  sinner,  V)ut  with  thought  as  to  the 
evil  which  comes  of  unscourged  examples,  so  that 
when  again  we  are  met  in  the  Quarterly  Meeting  there 
shall  be  none  among  us  to  stir  up  discord,  and  we  can 
say  to  other  Meetings,  '  As  we  have  done,  so  do  ye. 
Make  elean  the  house  of  the  Lord.'" 

The  night  was  now  upon  us,  and  the  ringing  tones 
of  the  speaker  were  heard  tlirough  the  darkness  be- 
fore he  sat  down.  While  alJ  waited,  two  Friends 
lit  the  candles  set  in  tin  sconces  against  the  pillars 
of  the  gallery,  and,  in  the  dim  light  they  gave,  the 
discussion  went  on. 


140       Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Then  I  saw  that  Ai'thur  HoweD  was  about  to  speak. 
This  able  and  tender-minded  man  usually  sat  in 
Meeting  with  his  head  bent,  his  felt  hat  before  his 
eyes,  wrapped  in  thought,  and  lifted  above  aU  con- 
sideration  of  the  things  of  this  earth.  As  he  began, 
his  rich,  full  voice  filled  the  space,  and  something  in 
its  pleading  sweetness  appealed  to  every  heart.  He 
spoke  as  one  who,  having  no  doubt,  wondered  that 
any  one  else  should  doubt,  and  he  brought  the  dis- 
cussion to  a  decisive  point  at  once. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  said,  "  that  all  should  be  convinced 
by  those  who,  from  age  and  influence  among  Friends, 
have  the  best  right  of  speech.  Nevertheless,  since 
this  is  a  Meeting  for  discipline,  let  all  be  heard  with 
fairness  and  order.  Men  have  gone  astray.  They 
have  contended  for  the  asserting  of  civil  rights  in 
a  manner  contrary  to  our  peaceable  profession  and 
principles,  and,  although  repeatedly  admonished,  do 
not  manifest  any  disposition  to  make  the  Meeting  a 
proper  acknowledgment  of  their  outgoings.  There- 
fore it  is  that  we  bear  our  testimony  against  such 
practices,  and  can  have  no  unity  with  those  who  fol- 
low them  until  they  come  to  a  sense  of  their  errors. 
Therefore,  if  this  be  the  sense  of  our  Meeting,  let 
the  clerk  be  moved  to  manifest  the  feelings  of  the 
Meeting  to  these  members,  signing  on  our  behalf, 
for  the  matter  hath  already  been  before  us  twice, 
and  hath  been  deeply  and  prayerfully  considered  by 
ourselves ;  and  I  am  charged  to  tell  Friends  that  these 
members  who  have  thus  gone  astray  are  unwilling 
to  be  convinced  by  such  as  have  sought  to  bring  them 


HultH  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       141 

to  a  better  mind.  This  hath  been  duly  reported,  and 
ovei*seers  haviu^'  thus  failed,  it  doth  only  remain 
to  abide  by  the  sense  of  our  Meeting.  But  this  I 
have  ah'L'udy  said :  the  matter  hath  bren  pniyert'ully 
considered." 

After  this,  othei*s  spoke,  but  all  elder  Friends  un- 
dei-stood  that  the  business  had  been  disposed  of,  and 
little  attention  was  given  tt>  those  who  rose  after 
Frii-nd  Iloweli  sat  down.  Indeed,  tliat  they  were  ill- 
atlvised  to  speak  at  all  was  plainly  to  be  read  in  the 
countenances  of  many. 

This  was  my  fti-st  experience  of  an  evening  Meet- 
ing, and,  even  to  one  acquainted  with  all  the  ways 
of  Friends,  the  scene  wjis  not  without  its  interest. 
The  night  was  now  dark  outside.  The  tallow  dips 
ran  down  and  flared  dismally.  A  man  vnili  snuffers 
went  to  and  fro,  and  the  pungent  odours  of  candles, 
burned  out  and  to  be  rej)laced,  filled  the  room. 

In  the  quiet  which  foUowed  Arthur  Howell's  re- 
fined and  distinct  accents,  I  looked  at  the  row  of 
placid  fa<'cs  where  the  women  sat,  some  rosy,  some 
old.  all  in  the  monastic  cell  of  the  bonnet,  which  nuule 
it  as  impossible  to  see,  except  in  front,  as  it  is  for  a 
horse  with  blinders.  I  wondered  how  this  queer  head- 
gear came  to  have  been  made,  and  recalled  my  aunt's 
amusement  at  the  care  exercised  as  to  its  form  and 
material.  Few  there,  I  think,  let  their  thoughts 
wander,  and  in  front  of  me  the  row  of  drab  coats  and 
wide  felt  or  beaver  huts  remained  almost  motionless. 

At  last  James  Pemberton,  the  esteemed  clerk  of 
the  Meeting,  rose.     "  I  am  moved,"  he  said,  ''  by  the 


142      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


Spirit  to  declare  that  the  sense,  and  also  the  weight, 
of  the  Meeting  is  that  Cyrus  Edson  and  William 
Jameson  be  advised,  in  accordance  with  the  instructed 
wish  of  Friends." 

He  then  sat  down.  There  was  no  vote  taken. 
Even  had  a  majority  of  those  present  been  hostile  to 
the  proposed  action,  it  is  improbable  that  any  protest 
would  have  been  made.  The  clerk's  statement  that 
the  weight  of  the  Meeting  was  affirmative,  would 
have  been  held  to  settle  the  matter,  as  it  appeared 
best  to  a  limited  number  of  those  recognised,  through 
their  piety  and  strict  living,  to  be  competent  to  decide 
for  the  rest. 

I  was  now  assured  that  this  was  all,  and  looked  to 
see  two  of  the  elders  shake  hands,  which  is  the  well- 
recognised  signal  for  the  Meeting  to  break  up ;  but 
as  the  elders  did  not  move,  the  rest  sat  still  and  waited. 
By  and  by  I  saw  Nicholas  Wain  extend  his  hand  to 
my  father,  who,  looking  steadily  before  him,  made 
no  sign  of  perceiving  this  intention  to  dismiss 
Friends.  A  stiU  longer  pause  followed.  As  I  learned 
afterward,  no  fm-ther  speaking  was  anticipated.  No 
one  stirred.  For  my  part,  I  was  quite  ready  to  go, 
and  impatientlj^  awaited  the  signal  of  dismissal.  A 
minute  or  two  passed ;  then  I  was  aware  of  a  short, 
neatly  built  man,  who  rose  from  a  bench  near  by. 
His  face  was  strong,  irregular  of  feature,  and  for 
some  reason  impressed  me.  I  could  see  even  in 
the  indistinct  light  that  he  flushed  deeply  as  he  got 
up  on  his  feet.  He  received  instant  attention,  for  he 
went  past  me,  and,  standing  in  the  passageway,  was 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker       143 

quiet  for  a  moment.  He  was,  I  think,  not  over  thirty, 
and  seemed  embarrassed  at  the  instant  attention  he 
received.  For  a  few  minutes  he  appeared  to  seek 
his  words,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  to  find  them  in 
eloquent  abundauee. 

'•  It  is  not  usual,"  he  said,  '•  t'ur  disowned  members 
of  the  society  to  openly  protest.  Neither  ai*e  tliese 
our  brothers  here  to-da}'.  Nor,  were  they  with  us, 
are  they  so  skilled  with  the  tongue  as  to  be  able  to 
defend  tliemselves  against  the  strong  lauguage  of 
Thomas  Scattcrgood  or  the  gentle  speech  of  Artliur 
Howell.  I  would  say  a  word  for  them,  and,  too,  for 
myself,  since  nothing  is  more  sure  than  that  I  think 
them  right,  and  know  that  ye  will,  before  long,  cast 
out  me,  to  whom  your  worsliip  is  sweet  and  lovely, 
and  the  ways  of  Friends  for  the  most  part  such  as 
seem  to  me  more  acceptable  than  those  of  any  other 
Christian  society.  WTiether  it  be  that  old  memories 
of  persecution,  or  too  gi-eat  prosperity,  have  hardened 
you,  I  do  not  know.  It  does  seem  to  me  that  ye  have 
put  on  a  severity  of  dress  and  life  that  was  not  so 
once,  and  that  undue  strictne.<;s  hath  destroyed  for  us 
some  of  the  innocent  joys  of  this  world.  I  also  find 
unwholesome  and  burdensome  that  inner  garment 
of  self-righteousness  in  which  ye  clothe  yourselves 
to  judge  the  motives  of  your  fellow-men. 

"  So  far  as  the  law  went  against  such  views  as  you 
entertained,  none  did  more  resist  them,  in  your  own 
way,  than  did  you ;  but  now  the  Engli.sh  across  the 
seas  tell  us  that  the  li})erty  our  fathers  sought  on 
these  shores  is  to  be  that  which  pleases  a  corrupt  and 


144      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


pliant  ministry,  and  not  that  which  is  common  to 
men  of  English  blood.  Some  brave  men  of  our  so- 
ciety say,  '  Let  us  make  a  stand  here,  lest  worse  things 
come.  Let  us  refuse  to  eat,  drink,  or  wear  the  ar- 
ticles they  assume  to  tax,  whether  we  will  or  not.' 
There  is  no  violence.  Believe  me,  there  will  be  none 
if  we  are  one  throughout  the  colonies.  But  if  not— 
if  not— if  grave  old  men  like  you,  afraid  of  this  mere 
shadow  of  passive  resistance,  dreading  to  see  trade 
decay  and  the  fat  flanks  of  prosperity  grow  lean— 
if  you  are  wholly  with  our  oppressors,  passively  with 
them,  or,  as  some  believe,  actively,  then— then,  dear 
friends,  it  will  be  not  the  shadow,  but  the  substance, 
of  resistance  that  will  fall  in  blood  and  ruin  on  you 
and  on  all  men— on  your  easy  lives  and  your  ac- 
cumulated gains. 

"  Aye,  look  to  it !  There  is  blood  on  the  garments 
of  many  a  man  who  sits  fearfully  at  home,  and  thinks 
that  because  he  does  nothing  he  will  be  free  of  guilt 
when  the  great  account  is  called." 

On  this  a  rare  exception  to  the  tranquillity  of  Meet- 
ing occurred.  Daniel  OfSey,  by  trade  a  farrier,  rose 
and  broke  in,  speaking  loudly,  as  one  used  to  lift  his 
voice  amid  the  din  of  hammers :  "  Wherefore  should 
this  youth  bring  among  us  the  godless  things  of 
worldly  men  ? "  His  sonorous  tones  rang  out  through 
the  partial  obscurity,  and  shook,  as  I  noticed,  the 
scattered  spires  of  the  candle  flames.  "  This  is  no 
time  for  foolish  men  to  be  heard,  where  the  eldei*s 
are  of  a  mind.  The  sense  of  the  Meeting  is  with  us. 
The  weight  of  the  Meeting  is  with  us.     The  king  is 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       145 

a  good  king:,  iind  who  are  we  to  resist  ?  Out  with 
those  who  iiiv  uot  of  oiu-  ways !  Let  the  liaiuiiier 
fall  ou  the  uiirit^liteous,  lest  the  sheep  be  scattered, 
and  the  Shepherd  leave  them." 

At  this  qiu-er  iiiixtm-e  of  metaphors  I  saw  the  pre- 
\'ious  speaker  smile,  as  he  stood  iu  the  aisle.  Next 
I  heard  the  gentle  voice  of  James  Pemberton  break 
in  on  the  uncouth  speech  of  the  big  fanier. 

*'  It  is  the  custom  of  Friends  that  all  men  who  feel 
to  be  moved  to  tell  us  aught  shall  be  heard.  Friend 
"NVetherill,  we  %\'iU  hear  thee  to  an  end.''  He  spoke 
with  the  courteous  ease  of  a  well-bred  geutk'man,  and 
the  smith  sjit  down. 

Friend  Wetherill  paused  a  moment,  looking  to  left 
and  right  jdong  the  lines  of  deeply  interested  and 
motionless  faces.  Then  he  continued :  "  On  what  you 
and  otliei-s  do  iu  tliese  days  depends  what  shall  come 
upon  us.  Let  no  man  deceive  3'ou,  not  even  the  timid 
counsel  of  gniy  hairs  or  the  wariness  of  wealth.  The 
guinea  fears ;  the  penny  fights ;  and  tlie  poor  penny 
Ls  to-day  deeply  concerned.  You  take  shelter  under 
the  law  of  Christ,  to  live,  as  far  as  po.ssible,  at  peace 
with  all  men.  As  far  as  possible  ?  It  .should  at  times 
l>e  felt  that  Paul's  Hmitation  is  also  a  command. 
Do  not  resist  liim  who  woxdd  slay  a  child  or  wrong 
a  woman— that  is  liow  you  read  the  law  of  God. 

"  It  is  extremes  which  bring  ruin  to  the  best  Chris- 
tian societies,  and  if  the  mass  of  men  were  witli  you 
civil  order  would  cea«e,  and  the  carefulh'  Imilded 
structure  of  civilisation  would  perish.  You  are  al- 
ready undergoing  a  process  of  dry  decay,  and  as  you 
10 


146      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

dry  and  dry,  you  harden  and  shrink,  and  see  it  not. 
A  wild  woman  has  told  you  to  set  your  camp  in  order. 
See  to  it,  my  friends ;  see  to  it ! " 

For  not  less  than  a  minute  the  speaker  remained 
silent,  with  bended  head,  still  keeping  the  won- 
derfully steady  attention  of  this  staid  assembly. 
Very  slowly  he  lifted  his  face,  and  now,  as  he  began 
again,  it  was  with  a  look  of  tender  sweetness :  "  It 
was  far  back  in  Second-month,  1771,  I  began  to  be 
encompassed  by  doubts  as  to  the  course  Friends  were 
taking.  To-day  I  am  assm-ed  in  spirit  that  you  are 
wrong  in  the  support  you  gave,  and,  let  me  say,  are 
giving,  to  an  unjust  cause.  I  think  I  take  an  inno- 
cent liberty  to  express  myself  on  this  occasion,  also 
according  to  the  prospect  I  have  of  the  matter. 
There  is  something  due  to  the  king,  and  something 
to  the  cause  of  the  public.  When  kings  deviate  from 
the  righteous  law  of  justice  in  which  kings  ought  to 
rule,  it  is  the  right,  aye,  and  the  religious  duty,  of  the 
people  to  be  plain  and  honest  in  letting  them  know 
where.  I  am  not  a  person  of  such  consequence  as 
to  dictate ;  but  there  is  in  me  and  in  you  a  court,  to 
which  I  confidently  appeal.  I  have  appealed  to  it  in 
prayer,  as  to  what  my  course  shaR  be.  I  obey  my 
conscience.    Take  heed  that  you  do  not  act  rashly." 

Here  again,  after  these  calm  words,  he  paused,  and 
then  said,  with  emphatic  sternness,  "As  my  last 
words,  let  me  leave  with  you  the  admonition  of  the 
great  founder  of  this  colony.  '  I  beseech  you,'  he 
says,  'for  the  sake  of  Christ,  who  so  sharply  pro- 
hibited making  others  suffer  for  their  religion,  that 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       147 

you  have  a  care  how  you  exercise  power  over  other 
men's  eonseieuies.  My  frieuds,  conscience  is  God's 
throne  in  man,  and  tlie  power  of  it  His  prerogative  !' 
These  are  sok^niu  words.  Whether  you  k>ave  me  to 
live  among  you,  free  to  do  what  seems  right  to  me^ 
or  drive  me  forth,  who  have  no  wish  to  go,  now  and 
alwavs  I  shall  love  vou.    That  love  vou  cannot  take 

*  *  » 

away,  nor  weaken,  nor  disturb." 

I  was  sorry  when  the  melody  of  this  clear  voice 
ceased.  The  speaker,  wiping  the  moisture  from  his 
brow,  stood  still,  and,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
was  lost  in  the  prayer  which  I  doubt  not  followed. 

A  long  interval  of  absence  of  all  sound  came  after 
he  ceased  to  speak.  No  one  replied.  The  matter  was 
closed,  a  decision  reached,  and  the  clerk  instructed. 
I  knew  enough  to  feel  sure  that  those  manly  tones 
of  appeal  and  remonstrance  had  failed  of  their 
puq)ose. 

At  this  moment  I  saw  an  elderly  man  on  the  seal 
before  me  rise,  and  with  deliberateness  kneel  in 
prayer ;  or,  as  Friends  say,  Israel  Sharpless  appeared 
in  supplication.  At  first,  as  he  began  to  be  heard. 
Friends  rose  here  and  there,  until  all  were  afoot  and 
Bill  uncovered.  The  silence  and  reverent  bended  heads, 
and  the  dim  light,  affected  me  as  never  ])efore.  I\Iany 
turned  their  backs  on  the  praying  man,  an  odd  cus- 
tom, but  common.  As  he  prayed  his  voice  rose  until 
it  filled  the  great  room ;  and  of  a  sudden  I  startrd, 
and  broke  out  in  a  cold  sweat,  for  this  was  what  1 
heard : 

"  O  Lord,  arise,  and  let  Thine  enemies  be  scattered. 


148      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Dip  me  deeper  in  Jordan.  "Wash  me  in  the  laver  of 
regeneration.  Give  me  courage  to  wrestle  with  ill- 
doers.     Let  my  applications  be  heard. 

"  Father  of  mercy,  remember  of  Thy  pity  those  of 
the  young  among  us  who,  being  fallen  into  evil  ways, 
are  gone  astray.  We  pray  that  they  who  have  gam- 
bled and  drunk  and  brought  to  shame  and  sorrow 
their  elders  may  be  recovered  into  a  better  mind, 
and  sin  no  more.  We  pray  Thee,  Almighty  Father, 
that  they  be  led  to  consider  and  to  repent  of  deeds 
of  violence,  that  those  among  us  whom  the  confusion 
of  the  times  has  set  against  the  law  and  authority  of 
rulers  be  better  counselled ;  or,  if  not,  strengthen  us 
so  to  deal  with  these  young  men  as  shall  make  pure 
again  Thy  sheepfold,  that  they  be  no  longer  a  means 
of  leading  others  into  wickedness  and  debauchery." 
I  heard  no  more.  This  man  was  a  close  friend  of  my 
father.  I  knew  but  too  well  that  it  was  I  who  was 
thus  reproved,  and  thus  put  to  shame.  I  looked  this 
way  and  that,  the  hot  blood  in  my  face,  thinking  to 
escape.  Custom  held  me,  I  caught,  as  I  stared, 
furtive  glances  from  some  of  the  younger  folk.  Here 
and  there  some  sweet,  gentle  face  considered  me  a 
moment  with  pity,  or  with  a  curiosity  too  strong  for 
even  the  grim  discipline  of  Friends.  I  stood  erect. 
The  prayer  went  on.  Now  and  then  I  caught  a  phrase, 
but  the  most  part  of  what  he  said  was  lost  to  me.  I 
looked  about  me  at  times  with  the  anguish  of  a 
trapped  animal. 

At  last  I  saw  that  my  gentle- voiced  speaker,  Weth- 
erill,  was,  like  myself,  rigid,  with  upheld  head,  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       149 

that,  with  a  faint  smile  on  his  face,  he  was  looking 
toward  rae.  Minute  after  minute  passed.  Would 
they  never  be  done  with  it?  I  began  to  wonder  what 
was  going  on  under  those  bent  gray  hats  and  black 
bonnets.  I  was  far  away  from  j)cnitence  or  remorse,  a 
bruised  and  tormented  man,  helj>lcss,  if  ever  a  nam  was 
helpless,  under  the  monotonous  and  silent  reproach  of 
some  himdreds  of  people  who  had  condemned  me  un- 
heard.  It  did  seem  as  if  it  never  would  end. 

At  last  the  voice  died  out.  The  man  rose,  and  put 
on  his  hat.  All  resumed  their  seats  and  their  head- 
coverings.  I  saw  that  Friend  Scattergood  extended  a 
hand  to  my  fatlier,  who  was,  as  I  have  n<tt  yet  stated, 
an  elder.  Tiie  grasp  was  accepted.  Elders  and  over- 
seers, both  men  and  women,  rose,  and  we  also.  I 
pu.shed  my  way  out,  rudely,  I  fear.  At  the  door 
James  Pemberton  put  out  his  hand.  I  looked  him 
full  in  the  face,  and  turned  away  from  the  too  inquis- 
itive looks  of  the  younger  Friends.  I  went  by  my 
father  without  a  word.  He  could  not  have  known 
what  pain  his  meth(»d  of  .saving  my  soul  would  cost 
me.  That  he  had  been  in  some  way  active  in  the 
matter  I  did  not  doubt,  and  I  knew  later  that  my 
opinion  was  but  too  correct. 

Hastening  down  Front  street  ^vith  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  be  alone,  I  paused  at  our  own  door,  and 
then,  late  as  it  was,  now  close  to  ten,  I  unmoored  my 
boat,  and  wa.s  about  to  pusii  off  when  I  felt  a  hand 
on  my  shoulder.     It  was  Samuel  Wetherill. 

"  Let  me  gf)  with  thee,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  Wo 
should  talk  a  little,  thou  and  I." 


150      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  said,  "Yes.  Thou  art  the  only  man  I  want  to 
see  to-night." 

There  were  no  more  words.  The  moon  was  up  as  I 
pulled  down  Dock  Creek  and  out  on  my  friendly  river. 

"  Let  thy  boat  drift,"  he  said.  "■  Perhaps  thou  art 
aware,  Hugh  Wynne,  how  grieved  I  was ;  for  I  know 
all  that  went  before.  I  somehow  think  that  thou 
hast  already  done  for  thyself  what  these  good  folk 
seemed  to  think  was  needed.     Am  I  right  ? " 

''Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Then  say  no  more.  James  Wilson  has  spoken 
of  thee  often.  To  be  loved  of  such  a  man  is  much. 
I  hear  that  thou  hast  been  led  to  think  with  us,  and 
that,  despite  those  wicked  wild  oats,  thou  art  a  young 
man  of  parts  and  good  feehngs,  thoughtful  beyond 
thy  years." 

I  thanked  him  ahnosb  in  tears;  for  this  kindly 
judgment  was,  past  behef,  the  best  remedy  I  could 
have  had. 

"I  saw  thy  gi'eat  suffering;  but  in  a  year,  in  a 
month,  this  will  seem  a  thing  of  no  import;  only, 
when  thou  art  calm  and  canst  think,  hold  a  Meeting 
in  thy  own  heart,  and  ask  thy  quiet  judgment,  thy 
conscience,  thy  memory,  if  prayer  be  needed ;  and  do 
it  for  thyself,  Hugh." 

I  said,  "  Thank  thee,"  but  no  more.  I  have  ever 
been  averse  to  talking  of  my  relations  to  another 
world,  or  of  what  I  beUeve,  or  of  what  I  am  led 
thereby  to  do  in  hours  of  self-communion.  I  sat 
wishing  my  father  were  like  this,  a  tender-hearted 
yet  resolute  man. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      151 

Seeing:  me  indisposed  to  speak,  he  went  on :  "If  we 
could  but  keep  the  better  part  of  Friends'  creed,  and 
be  set  free  to  live  at  peace  with  the  law,  to  realise 
that  to  sit  down  quietly  under  oj^prt'ssion  may  be  to 
serve  the  devil,  and  not  God  !  Thou  kuowest.  as  well 
as  I,  that  divers  Friends  have  publicly  avowed  the 
miuistr}',  and  tdlege  that  whatever  they  may  do  is  a 
just  punishment  of  rebellion.  We  are  going  to  have 
a  serious  settlement^  and  it  will  become  ns  all,  Hugh, 
young  and  old,  to  see  that  we  are  on  the  right  side, 
even  if  we  have  to  draw  the  sword.  And  thou  and 
I  shall  not  be  alone  of  Friends.  There  are  Clement 
and  Owen  Biddle,  and  Christopher  Marshall,  and 
more." 

I  was  surprised,  and  said  so. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said ;  ''  but  I  talk  to  thee  as  to  a 
man,  and  these  tilings  are  not  to  be  spread  abroad. 
I  trust  I  have  been  to  thee  a  comfort ;  and,  now  the 
moon  is  setting,  let  us  go  home." 

I  thanked  him  as  well  as  I  knew  how.  He  had 
indeed  con.'^oled  me. 

When  I  ciune  in  my  father  had  gone  to  bed,  but 
my  mother  was  waiting  to  see  me.  She  caught  me 
in  her  arms,  and,  weeping  like  a  child,  cried,  "  Oh,  I 
have  heard !  He  did  not  tell  me  beforehand,  or  I 
should  have  for])ade  it.  Thou  shouldst  never  have 
gone  !  never !  It  was  cruel !  ^fon  Dieu  !  how  could 
they  do  it !  " 

It  was  I  who  now  had  to  comfort,  and  this  helped 
me  amazingly,  and  yet  added  to  my  just  anger; 
for  wliy  must  she,  who  was  innocent,  be  thus  made 


152      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

to  suffer?  My  father,  when  he  came  in,  had  asked 
for  me.  He  had  met  my  cousin,  who  had  seen  me 
going  down  Front  street,  and  had  liiuted  that  I  meant 
to  find  comfort  at  the  coffee-house  among  the  officers. 
She  knew  better,  and  had  said  her  mind  of  this  kins- 
man and  his  ways ;  upon  which  my  father  had  gone 
angry  to  his  bed.  I  was  beginning  to  have  an  in- 
creasing distrust  and  dislike  of  Arthur,  and  the 
present  news  did  not  lessen  either  feeling.  So  at 
last  here  was  an  end  of  the  consequences  of  my  sad 
night  at  the  coffee-house. 


XI 


TIE  next  day  we  went  to  our  farm  in 
Mcrioii.  3Iy  father  said  no  word  of  the 
fleeting,  nor  did  I.  The  summer  of  '73 
went  on.  I  rode  in  to  my  work  daily, 
sometimes  with  my  father,  who  talked 
almost  altogether  of  his  cattle  or  of  his  ventures, 
never  of  the  lowering  political  horizon.  He  had  ex- 
cused himself  from  being  a  consignee  of  the  tea,  on 
the  score  of  his  voyage,  which  was  now  intended  for 
September. 

My  aunt  lived  in  summer  on  the  farther  slope  of 
Chestnut  Hill,  where,  when  the  road  was  in  order, 
came  her  friends  for  a  night,  and  the  usual  card-play. 
Wiieu  of  a  Saturday  I  was  set  free,  I  dcliglitcd  to 
ride  over  and  spend  Sunday  with  her,  my  way  being 
across  country  to  one  of  the  fortls  on  the  Scliuylkill, 
or  out  from  town  })y  the  Ridge  or  the  Gennautown 
highroa<l.  The  ride  was  long,  but,  with  my  saddle- 
bags and  Lucy,  a  new  mare  my  aunt  had  raised  and 
given  me,  and  clad  in  ovendls,  which  we  called  tongs, 
I  cared  little  for  the  mud,  and  often  enough  stop]»ed 
to  assist  a  chaise  out  of  the  deep  holes,  which  made 
the  roa<Is  dangerous  for  vehicles. 

Late  one  day  in  August,  I  set  out  with  my  friend 

'53 


154      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Jack  to  spend  a  Sunday  witli  my  Aunt  Gainor. 
Jack  Warder  was  no  «v  a  prime  favourite,  and  highly 
approved.  We  rode  up  Front  street,  and  crossed  the 
bridge  where  Mulberry  street  passed  under  it,  and  is 
therefore  to  this  day  called  Ai-ch  street,  although  few 
know  why.  The  gay  coats  of  officers  were  plentiful, 
farmers  in  then*  smocks  were  driving  in  with  their 
vegetables,  and  to  the  right  was  the  river,  with  here 
and  there  a  ship,  and,  beyond,  the  windmill  on  the 
island.  We  talked  of  the  times,  of  books,  of  my  father's 
voyage,  and  of  my  future  stay  with  my  aunt. 

Although  Jack's  father  was  a  Quaker,  he  was  too 
discreet  a  business  man  not  to  approve  of  Jack's 
visits  to  my  aunt,  and  too  worldly  not  to  wish  for 
his  son  a  society  to  which  he  was  not  born ;  so  Mrs. 
Ferguson  and  Mrs.  Galloway  made  much  of  Jack, 
and  he  was  welcome,  like  myself,  at  Cliveden,  where 
the  Chews  had  their  summer  home. 

The  Tory  ladies  laughed  at  his  way  of  blushing 
like  a  girl,  and,  to  Jack's  dismay,  openly  envied  his 
pink-and-white  skin  and  fair  locks.  They  treated 
him  as  if  he  were  younger  than  I,  although,  as  it 
chanced,  we  were  born  on  tlie  same  day  of  the  same 
year ;  and  yet  he  liked  it  all— the  gay  women,  the 
coquettish  Tory  maids,  even  the  ^'  genteel "  Quaker 
dames,  such  as  Mrs.  Sarah  Logan  or  Mrs.  Morris, 
and  the  pretty  girls  of  the  other  side,  like  Sarah 
Lukens  and  the  Misses  Willing,  with  their  family 
gift  of  beauty.  These  and  more  came  and  went  at  my 
aunt's,  with  men  of  all  parties,  and  the  grave  Drs.  Rush 
and  Parke,  and  a  changing  group  of  English  officers. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       155 

lu  the  little  old  house  at  Belinout,  the  Rev.  Richard 
Peters  was  glad  to  sit  at  cards  with  the  Tory  ladies, 
whose  cause  was  not  his,  juid  still  less  that  of  Richard, 
his  nephew.  At  times,  as  was  the  custom,  sleigh- 
ing ptirties  in  ^viuter  or  ridiug-parties  in  summer 
used  to  meet  at  Cliveden  or  S]>ringetsbury,  or  at  a 
farm-house  where  John  Penu  dwelt  while  engaged 
in  building  the  great  house  of  Lansdowne,  looking 
over  trees  to  the  quiet  Schuylkill. 

We  rode  out  gaily  this  August  afternoon,  along 
the  Grermantown  road,  admiring  tlie  fine  farms,  and 
the  forests  still  left  among  the  cultivated  lands. 
Near  Fisher's  Lane  we  saw  some  two  or  three  peo- 
ple in  the  road,  and,  drawing  near,  dismounted. 
A  black  man,  who  lay  on  the  ground,  groaning  with 
a  cut  head,  and  just  coming  to  himself,  I  saw  to  be 
my  aunt's  coachman  Ctesar.  Beside  him,  held  by  a 
tarni'-r,  was  a  horse  with  a  jiillion  and  saddle,  all 
muddy  enough  from  a  fall.  Near  by  stood  a  slight 
young  woman  in  a  saveguard  petticoat  and  a  sad- 
coloured,  short  camlet  cloak. 

"  It  is  Miss  Darthea  Peniston,"  said  Jack. 

"  Miss  Peniston,"  I  said,  dismounting,  "  what  has 
/uippened  ? " 

She  told  me  quietly,  that,  riding  pillion  to  stay 
with  my  aunt,  the  horse  had  fallen  and  hurt  Ca?sar, 
not  l)adly,  slie  thouglit.  Slu*  had  alighted  on  her 
fct't,  but  what  sliould  she  do?  After  some  dis- 
cussion, and  the  black  being  })etter,  we  settled  to 
leave  him,  and  I  proposed  that  Jack,  the  lighter 
weight,  should  ride  my  Aunt  Gainer's  horse,  with 


156      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Miss  Peniston  on  the  pillion  behind  him.  Upon  this 
Jack  got  red,  at  the  idea,  I  suppose,  of  Miss  Darthea's 
contemplating  the  back  of  his  head  for  fom'  miles. 
The  young  woman  looked  on  with  shy  amusement. 

At  this  moment  Csesar,  a  much  pampered  person, 
who  alone  of  all  her  house  dared  give  my  aunt  ad- 
vice, declared  he  must  have  a  doctor.  Jack,  much 
relieved,  said  it  was  inhuman  to  leave  him  in  this 
case,  and  put  an  end  to  om*  discussion  by  riding 
away  to  fetch  old  Dr.  de  Benneville. 

Miss  Darthea  laughed,  said  it  was  a  sad  thing  a 
woman  should  have  no  choice,  and  pretended  to  be 
in  miser}^  as  to  my  unfortunate  lot.  I  said  nothing, 
but,  after  looking  Caesar's  horse  over,  I  gave  my  sad- 
dle to  be  kept  at  the  f  armei^'s,  and  put  the  coachman's 
saddle  on  my  mare  Lucy,  with  the  pillion  behind 
made  fast  to  the  saddle-straps  arranged  for  this  use. 
Then  I  looked  well  to  the  girths,  and  mounted  to  see 
how  Lucy  would  like  it.  She  liked  it  not  at  aU,  and 
was  presently  all  over  the  road  and  up  against  the 
fence  of  the  old  gravej'^ard  I  was  to  see  again  in  other 
and  wilder  days. 

I  saw  the  httle  lady  in  the  road  watching  me  with 
a  smiling  face,  by  no  means  ill  pleased  with  the  spec- 
tacle. At  last  I  cried,  "  Wait !  "  and  putting  Miss  Lucy 
down  the  road  for  a  mile  at  a  run,  soon  brought  her 
back  quite  submissive. 

''Art  thou  afraid?"  I  said. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  j^sked  if  I  am  afraid.  I  am 
very  much  afi'aid,  but  I  would  die  rather  than  not  get 
on  your  mai*e."    So  a  chair  was  fetched,  Miss  Penis- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       157 

ton  put  on  her  linen  riding-mask,  and  in  a  moment 
was  seat<?d  behind  me.  For  ten  minutes  I  was  fully 
taken  up  with  the  feminine  creature  under  me.  At 
last  I  said : 

"  Put  an  arm  around  my  waist.  I  must  let  lier 
go.  At  once  !  "  I  added  :  for  the  mare  was  getting  to 
rear  a  little,  and  the  young  woman  hesitated.  "  Do 
as  I  tell  thee ! "  I  cried  sharply,  and  when  I  felt  her 
right  ai'm  about  me,  I  said,  "  Hold  fast ! "  and  gave 
the  mare  her  head.  A  mile  sufficed,  with  the  double 
burden,  so  to  quiet  her  that  she  came  down  to  her 
usual  swift  and  steady  walk. 

When  there  was  this  chance  to  talk  witliout  hav- 
ing ever}'  word  jolted  out  in  fragments,  the  young 
pereon  was  sOcnt;  and  wlien  I  remarked,  "There 
is  now  an  opportunity  to  chat  with  comfort,"  said : 

"  I  was  waiting,  sir,  to  hear  your  excuses ;  but  per- 
haps Friends  do  not  apologise." 

I  thought  her  saucy, for  I  had  done  my  best;  and 
for  her  to  think  me  unmannerly  was  neither  just  nor 
kind. 

"  If  I  am  of  thy  friends—" 

"Oh,  Quakers,  I  meant.  Friends  with  a  large  F, 
Mr.  Wynne." 

"  It  liad  been  no  jesting  matter  if  the  mare  had 
given  thee  a  hard  fall." 

"  I  shoidd  have  liked  tliat  better  than  to  be  ordered 
to  do  as  your  worship  thought  fit." 

"  Then  thou  shouldst  not  have  obeyed  me." 

"  But  I  had  to." 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  And  the  talk  having  fallen  into  these 


158      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

brevities,  Miss  Peniston  was  qiiiet  awhile,  no  doubt 
pouting  prettily ;  her  face  was,  of  course,  hid  from  me. 

After  a  while  she  said  something  about  the  mile- 
stones being  near  together,  and  then  took  to  praising 
Lucy,  who,  I  must  say,  had  behaved  as  ill  as  a  horse 
could.  I  said  as  much,  whereon  I  was  told  that 
mares  were  jealous  animals;  which  I  thought  a 
queer  speech,  and  replied,  not  kno\\ing  well  how  to 
reply,  that  the  mare  was  a  good  beast,  and  that  it 
was  fail*  flattery  to  praise  a  man's  horse,  for  what 
was  best  in  the  horse  came  of  the  man's  handling. 

"  But  even  praise  of  his  watch  a  man  likes,"  said 
she.  ''He  has  a  fine  appetite,  and  likes  to  fatten 
his  vanity." 

She  was  too  quick  for  me  in  those  days,  and  I  never 
was  at  any  time  very  smart  at  this  game,  having  to 
reflect  too  long  before  seeing  my  way.  I  said  that 
she  was  no  doubt  right,  but  thus  far  that  I  had 
had  thin  diet. 

Perhaps  sajdng  that  Lucy  was  gay  and  well  bred 
and  had  good  paces  was  meant  to  please  the  rider. 
This  woman,  as  I  found  later,  was  capable  of  many 
varieties  of  social  conduct,  and  was  not  above  flatter- 
ing for  the  mere  pleasure  it  gave  her  to  indulge  her 
generosity,  and  for  the  joy  she  had  in  seeiag  others 
happy. 

Wondering  if  what  she  had  said  might  be  true, 
held  me  quiet  for  a  while,  and  busied  with  her  words, 
I  quite  forgot  the  young  woman  whose  breath  I  felt 
now  and  then  on  my  hair,  as  she  sat  behind  me. 

Silence  never  suited  Miss  Peniston  long  in  those 


HughW'vnne:  Free  Quaker       159 

days,  and  especially  not  at  this  time,  she  being  in  a 
meiTv  mood,  sufh  as  a  little  adveutm*e  causes.  Her 
moods  were,  in  fact,  many  and  chaugef ul,  and,  as  I 
was  to  learn,  were  too  apt  to  ride  even  licr  serious 
actions  for  the  time ;  but  under  it  all  was  the  true 
law  of  her  life,  strongly  charactered,  and  abiding 
Hke  the  constitution  of  a  land.  It  was  long  before  I 
knew  the  real  woman,  since  for  her,  as  for  the  most 
of  us,  all  early  acquaintance  was  a  masquerade,  and 
some  have,  like  this  lady,  as  many  vizards  as  my 
Aunt  Gainor  had  in  her  sandalwood  box,  with  her 
long  gloves  and  her  mitts. 

The  nuire  being  now  satisfied  to  walk  comfortably, 
we  were  going  by  the  Wister  house,  when  I  saw  saucy 
young  Sally  Wister  in  the  balcony  over  the  stoop, 
midway  of  the  penthouse.  She  knew  us  both,  and 
pretended  .shame  for  us,  witl:  her  hands  over  her 
face,  laugliing  memly.  "We  were  friends  in  after- 
life, and  if  you  would  know  liow  gay  a  creature 
a  young  Quakeress  could  be,  and  how  full  of  mis- 
cliief,  you  shoidd  see  her  journal,  kept  for  Deborah 
Logan,  then  Miss  Noms.  It  has  wonderful  gaiety, 
and,  as  I  read  it,  fetches  back  to  mind  the  officers 
she  prettily  sketches,  and  is  so  sprightly  and  so  full 
of  a  life  that  must  have  been  a  joy  to  itself  and  to 
others,  that  to  think  of  it  as  gone  and  over,  and  of 
her  as  dead,  seems  to  me  a  thing  impossible. 

It  was  not  thout^ht  proper  then  for  a  young  woman 
to  go  on  pillion  behind  a  young  man,  and  this  Miss 
Sally  well  knew.  I  dare  say  she  set  it  down  for  the 
edification  of  her  young  friend. 


i6o      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"The  child"  (she  was  rather  more  than  that)  "is 
saucy,"  said  my  lady,  who  understood  well  enough 
what  her  gestures  meant.  "  I  should  like  to  box  her 
ears.  You  were  very  silent  just  now,  Mr.  Wynne. 
A  penny  is  what  most  folks'  thoughts  are  bid  for, 
but  yours  may  be  worth  more.  I  would  not  stand 
at  a  shilling." 

"  Then  give  it  to  me,"  said  I.  "  I  assure  thee  a 
guinea  were  too  little." 

''  What  are  they  ? " 

"  Oh,  but  the  shiUing." 

"  I  promise." 

"  I  seem  to  see  a  little,  dark-faced  child  crying  be- 
caiise  of  a  boy  in  disgrace — " 

"  Pretty  ? "  she  asked  demurely. 

"  No,  rather  plain." 

"  You  seem  to  have  too  good  a  memory,  sir.  Who 
was  she  ? " 

"  She  is  not  here  to-day." 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  her— oh,  some- 
where! She  comes  out  on  occasions.  You  may 
never  see  her ;  you  may  see  her  to-morrow." 

I  was  to  see  her  often.     ^'  My  shilling,"  I  said. 

''  That  was  only  a  jest,  Mr.  Wynne.  My  other 
girl  has  stolen  it,  for  remembrance  of  a  lad  that  was 
brave  and—" 

"  He  was  a  young  fool !     My  shilling,  please." 

"  No,  no !  " 

At  this  I  touched  the  mare  with  my  spur.  She, 
not  seeing  the  joke,  pranced  about,  and  Miss  Darthea 
was  forced  to  hold  to  my  waist  for  a  minute. 


Hu^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      i6i 

"  The  mare  is  ill  broke,"  she  cried.  "  Why  does 
she  not  go  along  quietly  ? " 

"  She  hates  dishonesty,"  I  said. 

"  But  I  have  not  a  penny." 

"Thou  shouldst  never  run  in  debt  if  thou  art 
without  means.  It  is  woi-se  tlian  gambhug,  since 
here  thou  hast  had  a  consideration  for  thy  money, 
and  I  am  out  of  pocket  by  a  valuable  thought." 

"  I  am  very  bad.  I  may  get  prayed  over  in  Meeting, 
only  we  do  not  have  the  custom  at  Christ  Church." 

I  was  struck  diunb.  Of  course  every  one  knew  of 
my  disaster  and  what  came  of  it ;  but  that  a  young 
girl  shoidd  taunt  me  with  it,  and  for  no  reason, 
seemed  incredible.  No  one  ever  spoke  of  it  to  me, 
not  even  Mistress  Ferguson,  whose  daily  food  was 
the  saNnng  of  things  no  one  else  dared  to  say.  I  rode 
on  without  a  word. 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  back  of  me  quite  changed 
—  tender,  almost  teai-ful.  "Will  you  pardon  me, 
Mr.  Wynne?  I  was  wicked,  and  now  I  have  hurt 
you  who  was  once  so  good  to  me.  Your  aunt  says 
that  I  am  six  girls,  not  one,  and  that—  Will  you 
please  to  forgive  me?" 

"  Pray  don't ;  there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I  am 
over-sensitive,  I  sn]ipo.«;e.  My  friend  Mr.  Wilson 
says  it  is  a  great  thing  in  life  to  learn  how  to  forget 
wisely.  I  am  learning  the  lesson ;  but  some  wounds 
take  long  to  heal,  and  this  is  true  of  a  boy's  folly. 
Pray  say  no  more."  1  put  the  mare  to  trotting,  and 
we  rode  on  past  Cliveden  and  Mount  Airy,  neither 
speaking  for  a  while. 
u 


1 62      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  wondered,  as  we  rode,  at  her  rashness  of  talk  and 
her  want  of  consideration ;  and  I  rtllected,  with  a 
certain  surprise,  at  the  frequent  discovery,  of  late, 
on  how  much  older  I  seemed  to  be.  It  was  a 
time  which  quickly  matured  the  thoughtful,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  shake  off,  in  some  degree,  the  life- 
long shackles  of  limitation  as  to  conduct,  dress,  and 
minor  morals,  imposed  upon  me  by  my  home  sur- 
roundings. In  a  word,  being  older  than  my  years,  I 
began  to  think  for  myself.  Under  the  influence  of 
Mr.  Wetherill  I  had  come,  as  without  him  I  could  not 
have  done,  to  see  how  much  there  was  of  the  beauti- 
ful and  noble  in  the  creed  of  Fox  and  Penn,  how 
much,  too,  there  was  in  it  to  cramp  enterprise,  to 
limit  the  innocent  joys  of  life,  to  render  progress 
impossible,  and  submission  to  every  base  man  or 
government  a  duty. 

I  had  learned,  too,  in  my  aunt's  house,  the  ways 
and  manners  of  a  larger  world,  and,  if  I  had  yielded 
to  its  temptations,  I  had  at  least  profited  by  the  bit- 
ter lesson.  I  was  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  and  had 
begun  to  feel  as  I  had  never  done  before  the  charm 
of  woman ;  this  as  yet  I  hardly  knew. 

As  we  breasted  the  hiU,  and  saw  beneath  us 
the  great  forest-land  spread  out,  with  its  scattered 
farms,  an  exclamation  of  delight  broke  from  my 
companion's  lips.  It  was  beautiful  then,  as  it  is  to- 
day, with  the  far-seen  range  of  hills  beyond  the  river, 
where  lay  the  Valley  Forge  I  was  to  know  so  weU,  and 
Whitemarsh,  aU  under  the  hazy  blue  of  a  cool  August 
day,  with  the  northwest  wind  blowing  in  my  face. 


HughWvnne:  Free  Quaker       163 

"Within  there  were  my  aunt  and  some  young  wo- 
men, and  ray  Cousin  Arthur,  with  exphmations  to  be 
made,  aftvr  which  my  young  woman  hurried  off  to 
make  her  toilet,  and  I  to  rid  me  of  my  riding-dress. 

It  was  about  seven  when  we  assembled  out  of  doors 
under  the  trees,  where  ou  summer  davs  mv  Aunt 
Gainor  liked  to  have  supper  served.  My  Cousin 
Wynne  left  Mi*s.  Ferguson  aud  came  to  meet  me. 
We  strolled  apart,  and  he  began  to  ask  me  questions 
about  the  tea  cargoes  expected  soon,  but  which  came 
not  until  December.  I  said  my  fathei-^s  voyage  would 
prevent  his  acting  as  consignee,  aud  this  seemed  to 
surprise  him  and  make  him  thoughtful,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  aware  of  my  fathers  unflinching  loyalty. 
He  spoke,  too,  of  Mr.  Wilson,  appearing— and  this 
was  natural  enough— to  know  of  my  intimacy  -vNath 
the  ^Vhig  gentleman.  I  was  cautious  in  my  replies, 
and  he  learned,  I  think,  but  little.  It  was  a  pity,  he 
said,  that  my  father  would  not  visit  Wjnicote.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  dwelt  overmuch  on  this  matter, 
and  my  aimt,  who  greatly  fancied  him,  was  also  of  this 
opinion.  I  learned  long  after  that  he  desired  to 
feel  entirely  assured  as  to  the  certainty  of  this  visit 
not  being  made.  I  said  now  that  I  wished  I  had  my 
father's  chance  to  see  our  Welsh  home,  and  that  I 
often  felt  sorry  my  gi'andfather  had  given  it  up. 

"  But  he  did,"  said  my  cou.sin,  *'  and  no  great  thing, 
either.  Here  you  are  important  people.  We  are 
petty  Welsh  squires,  in  a  decaying  old  house,  with 
no  money,  and  altf)gether  small  folk.  I  should  like 
to  change  places  witli  you." 


1 64      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"And  yet  I  i-egret  it,"  said  1.  My  Aunt  Gainor 
had  filled  me  full  of  the  pride  of  race. 

I  spoke  as  we  approached  the  group  about  my 
aunt,  and  I  saw  his  face  take  an  expression  which 
struck  me.  He  had  a  way  of  half  closing  his  eyes, 
and  letting  his  jaw  di-op  a  little.  I  saw  it  often  after- 
ward. I  suspect  now  that  he  was  dealing  intensely 
with  some  problem  which  puzzled  him. 

He  seemed  to  me  to  be  entirely  unconscious  of  this 
singular  expression  of  face,  or,  as  at  this  time,  to  be 
off  his  guard ;  for  the  look  did  not  change,  although 
I  was  gazing  at  him  with  attention.  Suddenly  I 
saw  come  down  the  green  alley,  walled  with  well- 
trimmed  box,  a  fresh  vision  of  her  who  had  been 
riding  with  me  so  lately.  My  cousin  also  became 
aware  of  the  figure  which  passed  gaily  under  the 
trees  and  smiled  at  us  from  afar. 

"  By  Greorge !  Hugh/'  said  Arthur,  "  who  is  the 
sylph  ?  what  grace !  what  grace  !  " 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  reply.  She  wore  a  silken 
brocade  with  little  broidered  roses  here  and  there,  a 
bodice  of  the  same,  cut  square  over  a  gu-l-hke  neck, 
white,  and  not  yet  filled  up.  Her  long  gloves  were 
held  up  to  the  sleeve  by  tightens  of  plaited  white 
horsehair,  which  held  a  red  rosebud  in  each  tie ;  and 
her  hair  was  braided  with  a  ribbon,  and  set  high  in 
coils  on  her  head,  with  but  little  powder.  As  she 
came  to  meet  us  she  dropped  a  curtsey,  and  kissed 
my  aunt's  hand,  as  was  expected  of  young  people. 

I  have  tried  since  to  think  what  made  her  so  un- 
like other  women.     It  was  not  the  singular  grace 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       165 

whicli  had  at  once  struck  my  cousin ;  neither  was 
she  beautiful.  I  long  after  hated  Miss  Chew  for  an 
hour  because  she  said  Darthea  Peuiston  had  not  one 
perfect  feature.  She  had,  notwithstanding,  clciir, 
lai'ge  brown  eves,  and  a  sniiL'  which  was  so  vari- 
ously  eloquent  that  no  man  saw  it  umnoved.  This 
was  not  alL  Her  face  hatl  some  of  that  charm  of 
mystery  which  a  few  women  possess— a  questioning 
look ;  but,  above  all,  there  was  a  strange  flavour  of 
feminine  attractiveness,  more  common  in  those  who 
are  older  than  she,  and  f  idler  in  bud ;  rare,  I  think, 
in  one  whose  \'irgin  ciirves  have  not  yet  come  to 
maturitv.  Wliat  she  was  to  me  tliat  summer  even- 
ing  she  was  to  all  men— a  creatui*e  of  many  moods, 
and  of  great  power  to  express  tliem  in  face  and  voice. 
She  was  young,  she  loved  admii-ation,  and  coidd  be 
carried  off  her  feet  at  times  by  the  follies  of  the 
gay  world. 

If  you  should  wonder  how,  at  this  distant  day,  I 
can  recall  her  dress,  I  may  say  that  one  of  my  aunt's 
lessons  was  that  a  man  should  notice  how  a  woman 
dressed,  and  not  fail  at  times  to  compliment  a  gown, 
or  a  pretty  fashion  of  hair.  You  may  see  that  I  had 
some  queer  schoolmasters. 

I  said  to  my  cousin,  "That  is  Miss  Darthea  Pen- 
iston." 

"Darthea,"  he  repeated.  "She  looks  the  name. 
Sad  if  she  had  been  called  Deborah,  or  some  of  your 
infernally  idiotic  Scripture  names." 

He  was  duly  presented,  and,  I  must  say,  made  the 
most  of  his  chances  for  two  days,  so  that  the  elder 


1 66      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

dames  were  amused  at  Darthea's  conquest,  my  cousin 
having  so  far  shown  no  marked  preference  for  any- 
one except  the  elder  Miss  Franks,  who  was  rich  and 
charming  enough  to  have  many  men  at  her  feet, 
despite  her  Hebrew  blood. 

In  truth  he  had  been  hit  hard  that  fatal  August 
afternoon,  and  he  proved  a  bold  and  constant  wooer. 
With  me  it  was  a  more  tardy  influence  which  the  fail' 
Darthea  as  surel}'-  exerted.  I  was  troubled  and  dis- 
turbed at  the  constancy  of  my  growing  and  ardent 
affection.  At  first  I  scarce  knew  why,  but  by  and 
by  I  knew  too  well ;  and  the  more  hopeless  became 
the  business,  the  more  resolute  did  I  grow ;  this  is 
my  way  and  nature. 

During  the  remaining  weeks  of  summer  I  saw 
much  of  Miss  Peniston,  and  almost  imperceptibly 
was  made  at  last  to  feel,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
the  mysterious  influence  of  woman.  Now  and  then 
we  rode  with  my  aunt,  or  went  to  see  the  troops  re- 
viewed. I  thought  she  liked  me,  but  it  soon  became 
only  too  clear  that  at  this  game,  where  hearts  were 
trumps,  I  was  no  match  for  my  dark,  handsome 
cousin,  in  his  brilliant  uniform. 


xn 


N  September  1,  1773,  and  earlier  than 
had  been  meant,  my  father  set  sail  for 
London  with  my  ever  dear  mother. 
Many  assiombhHl  to  see  the  "Fair  Trader'' 
leave  her  moorings.  I  went  ^Nith  my 
prople  as  lar  as  Lewes,  and  on  accoimt  of  weather 
had  mnch  ado  to  get  ashore.  The  voyage  down  the 
Delaware  was  slow,  for  from  want  of  proper  lights 
we  must  needs  lay  by  at  night,  and  if  winds  were 
contrary-  were  forced  to  wait  for  the  ebb. 

WTiile  I  was  with  them  my  father  spoke  much  to 
me  of  business,  but  neither  blamed  my  past,  nor  praised 
my  later  care  and  assiduity  in  affairs.  He  was  sure 
the  king  would  have  his  way,  and,  I  tliouglit,  felt  sony 
to  have  so  readily  given  up  the  consignecship  of  the 
teas.  I  was  other-vvise  minded,  and  I  asked  what  was 
to  be  done  in  the  event  of  certain  troubles  such  as 
many  feared.  He  said  that  Thomas,  his  old  clerk, 
would  decide,  and  my  Aunt  Gainor  had  a  power  of 
attorney ;  as  to  the  troubles  I  sjioke  of,  he  well 
knew  that  I  meant  sudi  idle  distur])anees  of  peace 
as  James  Wilson  and  "Wi'thcrill  were  doing  their 
best  to  ])ring  about. 

"Thy  Cousin  Arthur  is  bettor  advised,"  he  said, 

167 


1 68      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  and  a  man  of  sound  judgment.    Thou  mightst  seek 
worse  counsel  on  occasion  of  need." 

I  was  sm-prised  at  this,  for  I  should  have  believed, 
save  as  to  the  king,  they  could  not  have  had  one 
opinion  in  common. 

Far  other  were  those  sweeter  talks  I  had  with  my 
mother,  as  we  sat  on  the  deck  in  a  blaze  of  sunlight. 
She  burned  ever  a  handsome  brown,  without  freckles, 
and  loved  to  sit  out,  even  in  our  great  heats.  She 
would  have  me  be  careful  at  my  aunt's  not  to  be  led 
into  idleness ;  for  the  rest  I  had  her  honest  trust ;  and 
her  blue  eyes,  bright  with  precious  tears,  declared 
her  love,  and  hopeful  belief.  I  must  not  neglect  my 
French— it  would  keep  her  in  mind;  and  she  went 
on  in  that  tongue  to  say  what  a  joy  I  had  been  in 
her  life,  and  how  even  my  follies  had  let  her  see  how 
true  a  gentleman  I  was.  Then,  and  never  before, 
did  she  say  a  thing  which  left  on  my  mind  a  fear 
that  life  had  not  brought  and  kept  for  her  through- 
out all  the  happiness  which  so  good  and  noble  a 
creature  deserved. 

"  There  is  much  of  thy  father  in  thee,  Hugh.  Thou 
art  firm  as  he  is,  and  fond  of  thine  own  way.  This 
is  not  bad,  if  thou  art  thoughtful  to  see  that  thy  way 
is  a  good  way.  But  do  not  grow  hard.  And  when 
thou  art  come  to  love  some  good  woman,  do  not 
make  her  life  difficult." 

"But  I  love  no  woman,  7na  mere,"  I  cried,  "and 
never  shall,  as  I  love  thee.  It  is  the  whole  of  my  love 
thou  hast,  chere,  cJiere  niaman  ;  thou  hast  it  all." 

"Ah,  then  I  shall  know  to  divide  with  her,  Hughj 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      169 

and  I  shall  be  generous  too.  If  tboii  hast  any  little 
fancies  tliat  way,  thou  must  write  and  tell  me.  Oh, 
nioH  Jils,  tiiou  wilt  write  often,  and  1  must  know 
all  the  news.  I  do  hear  that  Dai-thea  Peniston  is  in 
tliy  aunt's  house  a  good  deal,  and  Madam  Ferguson, 
the  gossip,  woidd  have  me  believe  thou  carest  for  her, 
and  that  ^\j-thur  Wynne  is  taken  in  the  same  net.  I 
liked  her.  I  did  not  tell  thee  that  thy  Aunt  Gainor 
left  her  with  me  for  an  hour  while  she  went  into 
King  street  to  bargain  for  a  great  china  god.  What 
a  gay,  winning  creature  it  is !  She  nmst  needs  tell 
me  all  about  hei-self.  Wliy  do  people  so  unlock 
their  hearts  for  me?" 

I  laughed,  and  Siiid  she  had  a  key  called  love ;  and 
on  this  she  kissed  me,  and  asked  did  I  say  such  pretty 
things  to  other  women  ?  Darthea  was  now  to  live 
with  her  aunt,  that  stiff  Mistress  Peniston,  who  was 
a  fierce  Tory.  "  She  will  have  a  fine  bargain  of  the 
girl.  She  has  twenty  ways  with  her,  real  or  false, 
and  can  make  music  of  them  all  like  a  mocking-bird. 
Dost  thou  like  her,  Ilugh  ?— I  mean  Darthea." 

I  said, "  Yes." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  she  ran  on.  "  I  loved  her  at  sight. 
But  if  ever  thou  dost  come  to  love  her— and  I  see 
signs,  oh,  I  see  signs— if  ever,— then  beware  of  thy 
Cousin  WjTine.  I  heard  him  once  say  to  thy  father, 
'  If  there  is  only  one  glass  of  tlie  Madeira  left,  I  want 
it,  because  there  is  only  one.'  And  there  is  only  one 
of  a  good  woman.  What  anotlier  wants  that  man 
is  sure  to  want,  and  I  do  not  like  him,  Tlugh.  Thou 
dost,  I  think.     He  hu^  some  reason  to  linger  here. 


170      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


Is  it  this  woman  ?  Or  would  he  spy  out  the  land  to 
know  what  we  mean  to  do  ?  I  am  sure  he  has  orders 
to  watch  the  way  things  are  going,  or  why  should  not 
he  have  gone  with  Sir  Guy  Carleton  to  Quebec  ?  It 
is  a  roundabout  way  to  go  through  Philadelphia," 

I  said  I  did  not  know ;  but  her  words  set  me  to 
thinking,  and  to  wondering,  too,  as  I  had  not  done 
before.  Another  time  she  asked  me  why  Arthur 
talked  so  as  to  disgust  my  father  out  of  aU  idea  of 
going  to  see  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  I  promised 
to  be  careful  of  my  relations  with  my  cousin,  whom 
I  liked  less  and  less  as  time  ran  on. 

At  Lewes  we  parted.  Shall  I  ever  forget  it? 
Those  great  blue  eyes  above  the  gunwale,  and  then 
a  white  handkerchief,  and  then  no  more.  When  I 
could  no  longer  see  the  ship's  hull  I  chmbed  a  great 
sand-dune,  and  watched  even  the  masts  vanish  on 
the  far  horizon.  It  was  to  me  a  solemn  parting. 
The  seas  were  wide  and  perilous  in  those  days,  the 
buccaneers  not  all  gone,  and  the  trading  ship  was 
small,  I  thought,  to  carry  a  load  so  precious. 

As  the  sun  went  down  I  walked  over  the  dunes, 
which  are  of  white  sand,  and  forever  shifting,  so  as 
at  one  time  to  threaten  with  slow  burial  the  little 
town,  and  at  another  to  be  moving  on  to  the  forest. 
As  they  changed,  old  wrecks  came  into  view,  and  I 
myself  saw  sticking  out  the  bones  of  sailors  buried 
here  long  ago,  or  haply  cast  ashore,  A  yet  stranger 
thing  I  beheld,  for  the  strong  northwest  wind,  which 
blew  hard  all  day  and  favoured  the  "Fair  Trader,"  had 
so  cast  about  the  fine  sand  that  the  buried  snow  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       171 

la^t  winter  was  to  be  seen,  which  seemed  to  me  a 
thing  must  siug:iLlai'.  When  I  tokl  Jack,  he  made 
verses  about  it,  as  he  did  sometimes,  but  would 
show  them  only  to  me.  I  forget  entirely  what 
he  wrote;  how  a  man  can  make  verses  and  dig 
rhymes  out  of  his  head  has  always  been  to  me  a 
puzzle. 

At  the  town  inn,  "  The  Lucky  Fisherman,"  I  saw, 
to  my  surprise,  Jack  on  horseback,  just  arrived.  He 
said  he  had  a  debt  to  collect  for  his  father.  It  was 
no  doubt  true,  for  Jack  could  not  tell  even  the 
mildest  lib  and  not  get  rose-red.  But  he  knew  how 
I  grieved  at  this  separation  from  my  mother,  and,  I 
think,  made  an  occasion  to  come  down  and  bear  me 
company  on  my  long  ride  liome.  I  was  truly  glad  to 
have  Mm.  Together  we  wandered  through  the  great 
woodlands  Mr.  Penn  had  set  aside  to  provide  fire- 
wood forever  for  the  poor  of  Lewes. 

The  next  day  we  sent  Tom  on  ahead  \\'itli  our  sacks 
to  Newcastle,  where  we  meant  to  bait  ourselves  and 
our  horses.  But  first  we  rode  down  the  coast  to 
Rehoboth,  and  had  a  noble  sea-bath ;  also  above  the 
beach  was  a  bit  of  a  fresh-water  lake,  most  delicious 
to  take  the  salt  off  the  skin.  After  this  diversion, 
which  as  usual  dismissed  ray  blue  devils,  we  set  out 
up  the  coast  of  the  Bay  of  Delaware,  and  were  able 
to  reach  Newcastle  that  evening,  and  the  day  after 
our  own  homos. 

This  ride  gave  us  a  fine  chance  for  talk,  and  wo 
mad(i  good  use  of  it. 

As  we  passed  between  the  hedges  and  below  the 


172      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

old  Swede  church  nigh  to  Wilmington,  Jack  f eU  into 
talk  of  Darthea  Peniston.  Why  we  had  not  done  so 
before  I  knew  not  then:  we  were  both  shy  of  the 
subject.  I  amused  myself  by  insisting  that  she  was 
but  a  light-minded  young  woman  with  no  strong 
basis  of  character,  and  too  fond  of  a  red  coat.  It 
did  amuse  me  to  see  how  this  vexed  Jack,  who 
would  by  no  means  accept  my  verdict.  We  con- 
versed far  longer  on  the  stormy  quarrels  of  the 
colonies  and  their  stepmother  England,  who  seemed 
to  have  quite  forgot  of  what  blood  and  breed  they 
were. 

Concerning  my  Cousin  Wynne,  with  whom  at  first 
I  had  been  much  taken,  Jack  was  not  inclined  to 
speak  freely.  This  I  foolishly  thought  was  because 
Arthur  laughed  at  him,  and  was,  as  he  knew,  of 
some  folks'  notion  that  Jack  was  a  feminine  kind  of 
a  fellow.  That  he  had  the  quick  insight  and  the 
heart  of  a  woman  was  true,  but  that  was  not  all  of 
my  dear  Jack. 

My  aunt  came  back  to  town  early  in  September, 
and  I  took  up  my  abode  in  her  town  house,  where  a 
new  life  began  for  me.  Letters  went  and  came  at  long 
intervals.     Our  first  reached  me  far  on  in  October. 

My  mother  wrote  :  ''  There  is  great  anger  here  in 
London  because  of  this  matter  of  the  tea.  Lord 
Germaine  says  we  are  a  tumultuous  rabble;  thy 
father  has  been  sent  for  by  Lord  North,  and  I  fear 
has  spoken  unadvisedly  as  to  things  at  home.  It  is 
not  well  for  a  wife  to  differ  with  her  husband,  and 
this  I  wiU  not ;  nevertheless  I  am  not  fully  of  his 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      173 

way  of  lliinking  as  to  tliese  sad  troubles ;  this,  how- 
ever, is  not  for  luiy  eye  or  ear  but  thine.  Benjamin 
Franklin  was  here  to  see  us  hist  week.  He  seems  to 
think  we  juight  as  well,  or  better,  pay  for  the  tea, 
and  this  suited  thy  father ;  but  after  thus  a^eeing 
they  went  wide  aj)art,  Franklin  having  somewhat 
shed  his  (Quaker  views.  I  did  fear  at  times  that  the 
talk  would  be  strong. 

"  When  he  had  gone  away,  thy  father  said  he  never 
had  the  Spirit  with  him,  and  wjis  ever  of  what  creed 
did  most  advantage  him,  and  perhaps  underneath  of 
none  at  all.  But  this  I  think  not.  He  hath  muoh 
of  the  shrewd  wisdom  of  New  England,  which  I  like 
not  greatly ;  but  as  to  this,  I  know  some  who  have 
less  of  any  wisdom,  and,  after  all,  I  judge  not  a  man 
so  wise,  and  so  much  my  elder. 

"  General  Gage,  lately  come  hither  on  a  visit,  we 
are  told  assured  the  king  that  no  other  colony  would 
st«nd  by  Massachusetts,  and  that  four  regiments 
could  put  an  end  to  the  matter.  I  am  no  politician, 
but  it  makes  me  angrj^  to  hear  them  talk  of  us  as  if 
we  were  but  a  nursery  of  naughty  children.  It  seems 
we  are  to  pay  for  the  tea,  and  until  we  do  no  ships 
may  enter  Boston  harbour.  Also  all  crown  officers 
who  may  commit  murder  are  to  be  tried  in  England ; 
and  there  is  more,  but  I  forget." 

This  was  most  of  it  fresh  news  to  us.  Meanwhile 
Hutchinson,  the  governor  of  the  rebel  State,  was 
assuring  Lord  North  that  to  resist  was  against  our 
interest,  and  wo,  l)cing  "a  trading  set,"  would  never 
go  to  extremes.    -*  As  if,"  said  Wilson,  "  nations,  like 


1*74      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

men,  had  not  passions  and  emotions,  as  well  as  day- 
books and  ledgers." 

Meanwhile  at  home  our  private  affairs  were  rapidly 
wound  up  and  put  in  good  condition.  My  father 
found  it  difficult  to  collect  his  English  debts,  and  so 
had  to  limit  his  purchases,  which  we  stowed  as  they 
came  over,  declining  to  sell.  As  business  failed,  I 
was  more  and  more  at  leisure,  and  much  in  the  com- 
pany of  my  cousin,  whom  to-day  I  disliked,  and  to- 
morrow thought  the  most  amusing  and  agreeable  of 
companions.  He  taught  me  to  shoot  ducks  at  League 
Island,  and  chose  a  good  fowling-piece  for  me. 

On  Sundays  I  went  to  hear  my  aunt's  friend,  the 
Eev.  Mr.  White,  preach  at  Christ  Church,  and  would 
not  go  to  Meeting,  despite  Samuel  Wetherill,  whose 
Society  of  Free  Quakers  did  not  come  to  life  until 
1780.  Meanwhile  by  degrees  I  took  to  wearing  finer 
garments.  Cards  I  would  never  touch,  nor  have  I 
often,  to  this  day. 

One  morning,  long  after  my  parents  left,  my  Aunt 
Gainor  looked  me  over  with  care,  pleased  at  the 
changes  in  my  dress,  and  that  evening  she  presented 
me  with  two  fine  sets  of  neck  and  wrist  ruffles,  and 
with  paste  buckles  for  knees  and  shoes.  Then  she  told 
me  that  my  cousin,  the  captain,  had  recommended 
Pike  as  a  fencing-master,  and  she  wished  me  to  take 
lessons ;  "  for,"  said  she,  ''  who  knows  but  you  may 
some  day  have  another  quarrel  on  your  hands,  and 
then  where  will  you  be  ?  " 

I  declared  that  my  father  would  be  properly  furi- 
ous ;  but  she  laughed,  and  opened  and  shut  her  fan, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       175 

and  said  he  was  three  thousand  miles  awav,  and  that 
she  was  my  jruardian,  and  responsible  for  my  eduea 
tiou.  I  was  l>y  no  means  loath,  and  a  day  hiter  went 
to  see  the  man  with  my  Cousin  Artliur,  who  asked,  as 
we  went,  many  questions  about  my  mother,  and  then 
if  my  father  had  left  England,  or  had  been  to  Wyu- 
cot€. 

I  had,  as  he  spoke,  a  letter  in  my  pocket  writ  in 
the  neat  ehai'aetei's  I  knew  so  well ;  our  clerk  com- 
ing from  New  York  had  just  given  it  to  me,  and  as 
I  had  not  as  yet  read  it,  liking  for  this  rare  pleasure 
to  taste  it  when  alone,  I  did  not  mention  it  to  my 
cousin.  I  told  him  I  was  sure  my  father  would  not 
go  to  Wales,  both  because  of  business,  and  for  other 
reasons ;  but  I  hoped  when  he  came  back  to  get  leave 
to  be  a  vear  awav,  and  then  I  should  be  stu'e  to  %dsit 
our  old  nest. 

My  cousin  said,  "A  year— a  year,"  musingly,  and 
asked  when  my  parents  would  return. 

I  said,  "About  next  October,  and  by  the  islands," 
meaning  the  ^Madeiras. 

To  this  Arthur  Wynne  returned,  in  an  absent  fash- 
ion, "  Many  things  may  happen  in  a  year." 

I  laughed,  and  said  his  observation  could  not  be 
contradicted. 

"■  "SVliat  observation  ?  "  he  replied,  and  then  seemed 
BO  self-absorl)ed  that  I  cried  out : 

''  What  i)ossesses  thee,  Cousin  Wj-nne  ?  Thou  art 
sad  of  lat<*.  I  can  tell  thee  the  women  say  tliou  art 
in  love." 

"  And  if  I  were,  what  then  ? " 


176      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

This  frankness  in  a  man  so  mature  seemed  to  me 
odd,  when  I  thought  how  shy  was  the  growing  ten- 
derness my  own  heart  began  to  hide.  His  words 
troubled  me.  It  could  only  be  Darthea  Peniston. 
After  a  silence,  such  as  was  frequent  in  my  cousin, 
he  added,  "I  fear  that  blushing  friend  of  youi's  is 
fluttering  about  a  certain  bright  caudle.  A  pity 
the  lad  were  not  warned.  You  are  my  cousin, 
and  of  course  my  friend.  I  may  have  to  go  away 
soon,  and  I  may  ask  you  to  do  a  certain  thing 
for  me  when  I  am  gone.  No  man  nor  lad  shall 
stand  in  my  way,  and  you  must  hold  youi*  tongue 
too." 

I  was  puzzled  and  embarrassed.  I  said  cautiously, 
"  We  shall  see."  But  as  to  Jack  Warder,  I  liked  not 
what  he  said,  and  for  two  reasons.  I  knew  that, 
living  next  door  to  Darthea,  he  was  with  her  almost 
daily;  and  here  was  a  new  and  terrible  fear,  for 
who  could  help  but  love  her?  Nor  coidd  I  hear 
with  patience  Jack  so  contemptuously  put  aside  as  a 
child. 

"  Cousin  Ai'thur,"  I  said,  "  thou  art  mistaken  in 
Warder.  There  is  no  more  resolute  or  courageous 
man.  Jack's  shy  ways  and  soft  fashions  make  him 
seem  like  a  timid  girl,  but  I  would  advise  no  one  to 
count  on  this."  I  went  on,  hesitating,  "He  is  an 
older  friend  than  thou,  and— holloa.  Jack ! "  for 
here  was  the  dear  fellow  himself,  smihng  and  blush- 
ing; and  where  had  the  captain  been  of  late?  and 
that  awkward  left  hand  was  taken,  and  Jack  would 
come  with  us  and  see  us  play  with  the  small  sword, 


Huijh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       177 

and  would  like  to  ero  after  the  ducks  to-morrow.  He 
seemed  happy  aud  i)loased  to  meet  us. 

Pike  was  a  little  mau  who  had  a  room  amonc:  the 
shops  ou  Second  street.  He  wore,  as  I  had  often 
seen,  a  laced  cocked  hat,  and  was  clad  in  a  red  coat, 
such  as  none  wore  except  Creoles  fi'om  the  French 
settlements,  or  gentlemen  from  the  Carolinas.  He  had 
the  straight  figure  and  aggressive  look  all  men  carry 
who  teach  the  sword,  and  a  set  belief  that  no  man 
could  t^ach  him  anything— a  small  game-cock  of  a 
fellow,  who  had  lost  one  eye  by  an  unlucky  thrust 
of  a  foil. 

I  \\'ill  let  Jack's  jouriud,  not  \\Tit  till  long  after, 
tell  the  story  for  a  while.  He  saw  more  than  I  at 
the  time,  even  if  he  understood  it  all  as  little. 

"I  saw  Hugh  strip,"  he  writes,  "and  was  amused 
to  see  Pike  feel  his  muscles  and  exclaim  at  his  depth 
of  chest.  Then  he  showed  him  how  to  wear  the  wire 
mask,  while  the  captain  and  I  sat  by  and  looked  on. 

"  Hugh  was  awkward,  ]>ut  he  had  a  wrist  of  steel, 

and  when  once  he  had  caught  the  ideas  of  Pike,  who 

talked  all  the  time  in  a  squeaky  voice,  his  guard  was 

firm.     Pike  praised  him,  and  said  he  would  learn 

soon.     The  thing  so  attracted  me  that  I  was  fain  to 

know  how  it  felt  to  hold  a  foil ;  and  saying  as  much, 

the  captain,  who  fenced  here  daily,  said:   'It  is  my 

breathing-time  of  dav,  as  Pi-ince  Hamlet  says.     Bv 

George !  yoji  should  see  Mr.  Garrick  in  that  fencing 

scene  !    I  will  give  Mr.  Warder  a  lesson.    I  have  rather 

a  fancy  for  giving  young  men  les.sons.' 

'•In  a  minute  I  saw  my  foil  tly  six  feet  away 
12 


178      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

with  such  a  wrench  of  the  wrist  as  made  my  arm 
tingle. 

"  'Hold  the  foil  lightly.  Not  so  stit/  said  Pike,  and 
we  began  again.  Of  course  I  was  as  a  child  before 
this  man,  and  again  and  again  he  planted  a  button 
where  he  pleased,  and  seemed,  I  thought,  to  lunge 
more  fiercely  than  is  decent,  for  I  was  dotted  with 
blue  bruises  that  evening. 

''  At  last  I  gave  up,  and  the  captain  and  Pike  took 
the  foils,  while  we  sat  and  watched  them.  He  was 
more  than  a  match  for  Pike,  and  at  last  crying, 
*  Take  care !  here  is  a  hotte  you  do  not  know,'  caught 
him  fair  in  the  left  chest. 

"  '■  By  George !  Mr.  Wynne,  that  is  a  pretty  piece 
of  play  !  I  remember  now  Major  Montresor  tried  to 
show  it  to  me.  He  said  it  was  that  way  you  killed 
Lord  Charles  Trevor.' 

"  I  was  shocked  to  know  he  had  killed  a  man,  and 
Hugh  looked  up  with  his  big  mother-eyes,  while  the 
captain  said  coolly : 

" '  Yes ;  a  sad  business,  and  about  a  woman,  of 
course.  It  is  dreadful  to  have  that  kind  of  a  dispo- 
sition, boys,  that  makes  you  dangerous  to  some  one 
who  wants  what  you  want.  He  was  very  young  too. 
A  pity !  a  pity ! ' 

^'  Hugh  and  I  said  nothing ;  but  I  had  the  odd  no- 
tion that  he  was  threatening  us.  One  gets  these 
ideas  vaguely  in  youth,  and  sometimes  after-events 
justify  them.  However,  the  fancy  soon  took  me  to 
fence  with  Hugh  in  his  room,  for  I  dared  not  risk 
asking  my  father's  leave.     As  Hugh  got  his  lessons 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quake       179 


botli  from  Pike  and  the  captain,  and  became  very 
expert,  I  got  on  pretty  nearly  as  fast  as  he. 

"  At  times  we  practised  in  our  shirt-sleeves  in  the 
garden  at  Miss  Wynne's,  or  fenced  with  Graydon, 
who  was  later  the  most  expert  small  sword  we  had 
in  the  army.  Hugh  soon  became  nearly  as  skilful, 
but  I  was  never  ai>  clever  at  it." 

One  day  we  were  busy,  as  Jack  has  described,  when 
who  should  come  out  into  the  garden  but  Mistress 
Wynne  and  Darthea,  and  behind  them  the  captain. 
W'e  dropped  our  points,  but  Miss  Peniston  cried  out, 
'*  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  and,  laughing,  we  fell  to  again. 

Presently  I,  a  bit  distracted,  for  I  was  facing 
Darthea's  eves,  felt  Jack's  foil  full  on  mv  chest. 
Darthea  clai)ped  her  hands,  and,  running  forward, 
would  pin  a  bunch  of  red  ribbons  she  took  from  her 
shoulder  on  Jack's  sleeve.  Jack  fell  back,  as  red  as 
the  ribbons,  and  my  aimt  cried  out,  "  Darthea,  you 
are  too  forward !  " 

The  young  woman  flushed,  and  cast  down  the  bow, 
and  as  Arthur  Wynne  bent  to  pick  it  up  set  her  foot 
on  it.  I  saw  tiif  <-aptain  rise,  and  stand  with  the  half- 
shut  eyes  and  the  little  drop  of  tlie  jaw  I  have  already 
mentioned.  My  aunt,  who  liked  the  girl  well,  went 
after  her  at  once  as  she  left  us  in  a  pet  to  return  to 
the  house.  I  saw  my  aunt  jmt  a  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  then  the  captain,  looking  vexed,  followed 
after.  An  hour  later  I  went  to  look  for  the  ribbon. 
It  was  gone,  and  for  years  I  knew  not  where,  till, 
in  a  little  box  in  Jack's  desk,  I  came  upon  it  neatly 
tied  up. 


i8o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Young  as  I  was,  I  began  to  see  that  here  were 
Captain  Wynne,  and  possibl}''  my  friend,  in  the  toils 
of  a  girl,— she  was  but  seventeen,— and  I,  alas!  no 
better  off ;  but  of  this  I  breathed  not  a  word  to  any. 
Jack  hung  about  her  and  fell  back  when  any  less 
shy  man  wanted  his  place.  I  felt  that  he  was  little 
likely  to  have  his  way,  and  that  neither  he  nor  I 
had  much  chance  in  such  a  game  against  a  man  like 
my  cousin.  He  had  played  with  hearts  before,  and 
the  maid  listened  like  Desdemona  to  this  dark-browed 
soldier  when  he  talked  of  courts  and  kings,  and  far- 
away Eastern  battles,  and  the  splendour  of  the  Orient. 
My  aunt,  whom  nothing  escaped,  looked  on  much 
amused.  Perhaps  she  did  not  take  as  serious  the 
love-affairs  of  lads  like  Jack  and  me.  We  were  like 
enough  to  have  a  dozen  before  we  were  really  cap- 
tured. That  I  was  becoming  at  twenty-one  more 
thoughtful  and  resolute  than  far  older  people,  she  did 
not  see,  and  she  was  sometimes  vexed  at  my  sober 
ways.  I  was  at  times  gay  enough,  but  at  others  she 
would  reproach  me  with  not  taking  more  jDains  to 
please  her  guests.  Society,  she  said,  had  duties  as  well 
as  pleasures.  My  friend  Jack  no  one  fully  understood 
in  those  days,  nor  knew  the  sweet  manliood  and  the 
unselfishness  that  lay  beneath  his  girl-Hke  exterior. 

One  day,  late  in  November,  my  aunt  and  I  were, 
for  a  wonder,  alone,  when  she  dropped  the  cards  with 
which  she  was  playing,  and  said  to  me :  "  Hugh,  there 
is  something  serious  between  that  mischievous  kitten 
and  your  cousin.  They  are  much  talked  of.  If  you 
have  a  boy-fancy  that  way,  get  rid  of  it.     I  don't  see 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker      i  8  i 

through  the  man.  He  has  been  telling  her  about  the 
fine  house  at  Wyncote,  and  the  great  estate,  and  how 
some  day  he  will  have  it,  his  elder  brother  being  far 
gone  in  a  phthisis." 

"There  must  be  some  mistake."  I  said.  "Thou 
knowest  what  he  told  my  father." 

"  Yes ;  I  don't  like  it,"  she  went  on  ;  "  but  the  gu-l 
is  caught.  He  talks  of  soon  having  to  join  Sir  Guy 
Ctu'leton  in  Canada,  And  there  is  my  dear  girl-boy 
trapped  too,  I  fear.  But,  reaUy,  he  is  such  a  child 
of  a  fellow  it  hardly  matters.  How  many  does  she 
want  in  her  net  ?  The  fish  may  squabble,  I  fear,  A 
sweet  tiling  she  is;  ci-uel  only  by  instinct;  and  so 
gay,  so  tender,  so  truthful  and  right-minded  with 
all  her  nonsense.  No  one  can  help  loving  her ;  but 
to-day  she  has  one  mood,  and  to-morrow  another. 
There  will  be  a  mad  massacre  before  she  is  done 
with  you  all.  Run  away,  Hugh  !  run  !  Make  love 
to  Kitty  Shippen  if  you  want  to  get  Miss  Dar- 
thea." 

I  laughed,  but  I  had  little  mirth  in  my  heart. 

"  Aunt  Gainor,"  I  said,  "  I  love  that  woman,  and 
no  other  man  shall  have  her  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  If  ?  if  ?  Stuff !  you  can't  help  it.  Don't  be  a  fool ! 
The  sea  is  full  of  fish.     This  is  news  indeed." 

"  The  land  has  but  one  Darthea,"  said  L  "  I  am 
a  boy  no  longer.  Aunt  Gainor.  Thou  hast  made  me 
tell  thee,  and,  now  it  is  out,  I  may  as  well  say  I  know 
all  about  my  cousin.  He  as  good  as  told  me,  and 
in  a  way  I  did  not  like.  The  man  thinks  I  am  a  boy 
to  be  scared  out  of  going  my  own  way.    I  liave  told 


1 82      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

no  one  else ;  but  if  I  can  get  her  I  will,  and  it  is  no 
laughing  matter." 

"I  am  sorry,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  knew  not  it 
was  so  serious.  It  is  hard  to  realise  that  you  are  no 
more  a  boy,  and  must  have  the  sorrows  my  sex  pro- 
vides for  you.  I  like  her,  and  I  would  help  you  if  I 
could,  but  3'ou  are  late."  And  she  went  on  shiiffling 
the  cards,  while  I  took  up  a  book,  being  inclined  to 
say  no  more. 

That  evening  two  letters  came  by  the  New  York 
packet.  One  from  my  father  I  put  aside.  It  was 
dated  outside,  and  was  written  two  weeks  later  than 
my  mothei*'s,  which  I  read  first.  I  opened  it  with 
care. 

'*  My  own  dear  Son  :  Thy  last  sweet  letter  was  a 
great  refreshment  to  me,  and  the  more  so  because  I 
have  not  been  well,  having  again  my  old  ache  in  the 
side,  but  not  such  as  need  trouble  thee.  I  blush  to 
hear  the  pretty  things  thy  letters  say ;  but  it  is  love 
that  holds  thy  pen,  and  I  must  not  be  too  much  set 
up  in  my  own  esteem.  How  much  love  I  give  thee 
in  return  thou  knowest,  but  to  pay  in  this  coin  will 
never  beggar  us.  I  love  thee  because  thou  art  all  I 
can  desire,  and  again  because  thou  lovest  me,  and 
again  for  this  same  dear  reason  which  is  all  I  can 
say  to  excuse  my  mother-folly.  Thy  father  is  weU, 
but  weary  of  this  great  town ;  and  we  both  long  to 
be  at  home." 

Then  there  was  more  about  my  Aunt  WjTine,  and 
some  woman-talk  for  her  friends  about  the  new 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      183 

fasliions,  wliich  do  not  coucem  her,  she  being  not  of 
this  world.  "  Am  1  not  ? "  she  says,  "  I  love  it  uU— 
the  sea,  even  the  sea,  and  tlowers,  and  oiu'  woods, 
and,  dear  me !  also  gay  gowns.  I  hope  the  last  I 
got  here  will  not  disturb  the  Meeting,  and  my  new 
mull,— very  big  it  is,  — and  a  green  Joseph  to  ride  in. 
I  mean  to  ride  with  tliee  next  spring  often- often." 
And  so  on,  half  mother,  hidf  child,  with  bits  of  her 
dear  French,  and  all  about  a  new  saddle  for  me,  and 
silver  spurs.     The  postscript  was  long, 

"  I  saw  last  week  a  fair  Quaker  dame  come  ont  of 
Wales.  I  asked  her  about  the  Wynnes,  She  knew 
them  not,  but  told  me  of  their  great  house,  and  how  it 
was  a  show-place  people  went  to  see,ha\'ing  been  done 
over  at  great  cost ;  and  how  a  year  or  two  since  coal 
was  found  on  the  estate,  and  much  iron,  so  that  these 
last  two  years  they  were  rich,  and  there  was  some 
talk  of  making  the  present  man  a  baronet.  Also 
that  the  elder  brother  is  ill,  nigh  to  death.  It  seems 
strange  after  what  thy  cousin  said  so  often.  Thy 
father  is  away  in  Holland.  I  will  tell  him  when  he 
is  come  back.  Be  cautious  not  to  talk  of  this,  I 
never  liked  the  man." 

I  sat  back  in  my  chair  to  read  it  all  over  again,  first 
giving  my  aunt  my  father's  letter.  In  a  few  minutes 
I  heard  a  cry,  and  saw  my  aunt,  pale  and  shaken, 
standing  up,  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Mv  God!"  I  cried,  "what  is  it?  Is  it  mv 
mother?" 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  she  said.  "  Be  strong,  my  boy !  She 
is— dead ! " 


184      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

For  a  moment  I  saw  the  room  whirl,  and  then,  as 
my  Aunt  Gainor  sat  down,  I  fell  on  my  knees  and 
buried  my  face  in  her  lap.  I  felt  her  dear  old  hands 
on  my  head,  and  at  last  would  have  the  letter.  It 
was  brief. 

"  My  Son  :  The  hand  of  God  has  fallen  hea\Tly 
upon  me.  Thy  mother  died  to-day  of  a  pleurisy 
which  none  could  help.  I  had  not  even  the  conso- 
lation to  hear  her  speak,  since,  when  I  came  from 
Holland,  she  was  wandering  in  talk  of  thee,  and 
mostly  in  French,  which  I  know  not.  I  seek  to  find 
God's  meaning  in  this  chastisement.  As  yet  I  find 
it  not.  It  is  well  that  we  should  not  let  bereave- 
ments so  overcome  us  as  to  make  us  neglect  to  be 
fervent  in  the  business  of  life,  or  to  cease  to  praise 
Him  who  has  seen  fit  to  take  away  from  us  that 
which  it  may  be  we  worshipped  as  an  idol.  What 
more  is  to  say  I  leave  until  I  see  thee.  My  affairs 
are  now  so  ordered  that  I  may  leave  them.  I  shall 
sail  in  a  week  for  home  in  the  ship  in  which  I  came 
out,  and  shall  not  go,  as  I  did  mean,  to  the  islands." 

It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  read  and  re-read  it,  a  cold, 
hard  letter.  /J  said  as  much  to  my  aunt  some  days 
after  this ;  but  she  wisely  urged  that  my  father  was 
ever  a  reticent  man,  who  found  it  difficidt  to  let  even 
his  dearest  see  the  better  part  of  him. 

I  have  no  mind  to  dwell  on  this  sad  calamity.  I 
went  to  and  fro,  finding  neither  possibility  of  repose 
nor  any  consolation.     I  saw  as  I  rode,  or  lay  in  my 


Hu2;h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       i8c 

boat,  that  one  dear  face,  its  blue-eyed  tenderness,  its 
smile  of  love.  1  could  never  thus  recall  to  sight  any- 
other  of  those  who,  in  after-years,  have  left  nie ;  but 
this  one  face  is  here  to-day  as  I  write,  forever  smiling 
and  forever  young. 

And  so  time  ran  on,  and  nigh  to  Christmas  day 
my  father  came  home.  The  weather  was  more  mila 
than  common,  and  his  ship  met  no  delay  from  ice.  I 
joined  him  off  Chester  Creek.  He  was  gi-ayer,  older, 
I  tliought,  but  not  othei-wise  altered,  having  still  liis 
erect  stature,  and  the  trick  I  have  myself  of  throw- 
ing  his  lieiid  up  and  his  shoulders  back  when  about 
to  meet  some  emergent  occaision.  I  saw  no  sign  of 
emotion  when  we  met,  except  that  he  opened  and  shut 
his  hands  as  usual  when  disturbed.  He  asked  if  I 
were  well,  and  of  my  Aunt  Gainor,  and  then,  amid 
the  tears  which  were  choking  me,  if  I  were  satisfied 
as  to  the  business,  and  if  the  tea  had  arrived.  I 
said  yes,  and  that  the  ship  had  been  sent  away  with- 
out \'iolence.  He  said  it  was  a  silly  business,  and 
the  king  woiild  soon  end  it ;  he  himself  had  been  too 
hasty— with  more  to  like  effect. 

It  .seemed  to  me  while  we  talked  as  though  he  had  just 
come  from  my  mother's  death-ljed,  whereas  a  long  time 
had  elapsed,  and  he  had  been  able  to  get  over  the  first 
cruel  shock.  My  own  grief  was  still  upon  me,  and  I 
wondered  at  his  tranquillity.    A  little  later  he  said  : 

"I  see  thou  ha.st  taken  to  the  foolishness  of  l)la('k 
garments.  This  is  thy  aunt's  doings."  In  fact,  it  was 
her  positive  wish.  I  made  no  reply,  l)ut  only  looked 
him  in  the  face,  ready  to  cry  like  a  child. 


I  86      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  Why  hast  thou  no  answers,  Hugh  ?  Thy  tongue 
used  to  be  ready  enough.  Thou  hast  thy  mothei''s 
eyes.     I  would  thou  hadst  them  not." 

This  was  as  near  as  he  ever  came  to  speech  of 
her,  whom,  to  my  amazement,  he  never  again  men- 
tioned. Was  it  a  deeper  f eehng  than  I  knew,  that  so 
silenced  him,  or  did  he  wish  to  forget  her  f  I  know 
not.  Some  deal  thus  with  their  dead.  He  bade  my 
aunt  take  away  my  mother's  clothes,  and  asked  no 
questions  as  to  how  she  disposed  of  them ;  nor  for  a 
month  did  he  desire  my  return  home. 

What  then  passed  between  him  and  my  Aunt 
Gainor  I  do  not  know ;  but  he  said  nothing  more  of 
my  dress,  although  I  wore  mourning  for  six  months. 
Nor  did  he  say  a  word  as  to  my  exactness  and  indus- 
try, which  was  honestly  all  they  should  have  been.  At 
meals  he  spoke  rarely,  and  then  of  affaii'S,  or  to 
blame  me  for  faults  not  mine,  or  to  speak  with  cold 
sarcasm  of  my  friends. 

Except  for  Jack,  and  my  Aunt  Gainor,  and  Wilson 
and  Wetherill,  of  whom  I  saw  much,  I  should  have 
been  miserable  indeed.  Captain  Wynne  stiQ  came 
and  went,  and  his  strange  intimacy  with  my  father 
continued.  I  thought  little  of  it  then,  and  for  my 
own  part  I  liked  to  hear  of  his  adventurous  life,  but 
the  man  less  and  less ;  and  so  the  winter  of  '73  and 
'74  went  by  with  fencing  and  skating  and  books, 
wliich  now  I  myself  ordered  to  suit  me,  or  found  in 
Mr.  Logan's  great  library,  of  which  I  was  made  free. 

In  March  my  cousin  left  us  for  Canada  and  the 
army.     Once  I  spoke  before  him  of  the  news  in  my 


Hugh  W^nne :  Free  Quaker      i  87 


mothei-'s  postscript;  but  he  laughed,  sayiug  he  had 
heai'd  some  such  rumours,  but  that  the}-  were  not 
true.  They  did  not  much  trouble  a  huugry  beggar 
of  a  youuger  sou  with  letters;  still  if  there  had 
been  such  good  news  he  shoidd  have  heard  it.  He 
wished  it  might  be  so ;  aud  as  to  his  brother,  poor 
devil !  he  would  last  long  euougli  to  marry  aud  have 
children.  Were  tlie  ducks  still  in  the  river?  He 
said  no  more  to  me  of  Darthea,  or  of  what  I  was  to  do 
for  liim,  but  he  found  a  way  at  need,  I  am  sure,  to  get 
letters  to  her,  and  that  without  difficulty.  At  last, 
as  I  have  said,  he  was  gone  to  join  Sir  Guy.  I  was 
not  sorry. 

Mrs.  Peniston,  Darthea's  aunt,  usually  talked  lit- 
tle, and  then  of  serious  matters  as  if  they  were 
trivial,  aiul  of  these  latter  as  if  the\'  were  of  the 
utmost  iini.ortance.  Witli  regard  to  tliis  matter  of 
Darthea  and  my  cousin,  she  was  free  of  speech  and 
incessant,  so  that  all  the  town  was  soon  assured  of  the 
great  match  Darthea  would  make.  The  fine  house 
at  Wyncote  grew,  and  the  estate  also.  Neither  Jack 
nor  I  liked  all  this,  and  my  friend  took  it  sadly  to 
heart,  to  my  Aunt  Gainor's  amusement  and  Mrs. 
Ferguson's,  wlio  would  have  Dr.  Rush  set  up  a  ward 
in  the  new  hospital  for  the  broken-hearted  lovers  of 
Darthea.  Wiien  first  Ja<'k  Warder  was  thus  })a(lg- 
ered,  he  fell  into  suc-li  a  state  of  ten-or  as  to  wliat  the 
mad(;ap  woTnan  would  say  next  that  he  declined  aU 
society  for  a  week,  and  ever  after  detested  the  Tory 
lady. 

I  became,  under  the  iufluenoe  of  thismuch-talked-of 


I  88      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

news,  as  mute  as  Jack ;  but,  while  he  had  only  a  deep 
desire  toward  sadness,  and  to  stay  away  from  her 
who  had  thus  defeated  his  love,  I,  neither  given  over 
to  despair  nor  hope,  had  only  a  fierce  will  to  have 
my  way ;  nor,  for  some  reason  or  for  none,  did  I  con- 
sider Jack's  case  as  very  serious,— my  aunt  it  much 
amused,— so  little  do  we  know  those  who  are  most 
near  to  us. 

No  sooner  was  the  redcoat  lover  gone  awhile 
than,  as  Miss  Chew  declared,  Darthea  put  off  mourn- 
ing for  the  absent.  Indeed,  the  pretty  kitten  began 
once  more  to  tangle  the  threads  of  Jack's  life  and 
mine.  For  a  month  Jack  was  in  favour,  and  then 
a  certain  captain,  but  never  I,  until  one  day  late  in 
April.  She  was  waiting  among  my  aunt's  china  for 
her  return,  and  had  set  the  goggle-eyed  mandarin  to 
nodding,  while,  with  eyes  as  wide  as  his,  she  nodded 
in  reply,  and  laughed  like  a  merry  child. 

I  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  watched  this  delicious 
creatnre  for  a  minute  while  she  amused  herself — and 
me  also,  although  she  knew  it  not.  "  Say  No  !  "  she 
cried  out  to  the  great  china  nobleman ;  quite  a  foot 
high  he  was.  But,  despite  her  pretence  at  altering 
his  unvaried  affirmative,  it  stiU  went  on.  My  lady 
walked  all  around  him,  and  presently  said  aloud: 
*'  No  !  no !  It  must  be  No !  Say  No  !  "  stamping  a 
foot,  as  if  angry,  and  then  of  a  sudden  running  up 
to  the  mandarin  and  laughing.  "  He  has  a  crack  in 
his  head.  That  is  why  he  says  Yes !  Yes !  I  must  be 
a  female  mandarin,  and  that  is  why  I  say  No  !  No !  I 
wonder  does  he  talk  broken  China  ? " 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       189 

At  tliis  moment  she  saw  my  tall  black  figure  in  a 
corner  miiTor,  and  made  some  exclamation,  as  if 
startled ;  an  instant  later  she  knew  it  was  I,  but 
as  if  by  magic  the  laughing  woman  was  no  longer 
there.  What  I  saw  as  she  came  towju'd  me  wiis  a 
slight,  quiet  nun  with  eyes  full  of  tears. 

I  was  used  to  her  swift  changes  of  mood,  but  "what 
her  words,  or  some  of  them,  meant  I  knew  not ;  and 
as  for  this  pitvdng  face,  with  its  sudden  sadness, 
what  more  did  it  mean  ?  Major  Andre  said  of  her 
lat^r  that  MLstress  Darthea  was  like  a  lake  in  tho 
hills,  reflecting  all  tilings,  and  yet  herself  after  all. 
But  how  many  such  tricksy  ways,  pretty  or  vexing, 
she  was  to  show  some  of  us  in  the  years  to  come  did 
not  yet  appear. 

In  a  moment  I  seemed  to  see  before  me  the  small 
dai-k  cluld  I  first  knew  at  school.  ^Vhy  was  she  now 
so  curiously  perturbed  ?  "  Mr.  Wjaine,"  she  said, 
''  vou  never  come  near  me  now — oh,  not  for  a  month  ! 
And  to-day  your  aunt  has  shown  me  a  part  of  the 
dear  mother's  letter,  and— and— I  am  so  sorry  for 
you  !  I  am  indeed  !  I  have  long  wanted  to  say  so. 
I  wi.sh  I  coidd  help  you.  I  do  not  think  you  forget 
easily,  and  — and— you  were  so  good  to  me  when  I 
wa.s  an  uglv  little  brat.  I  think  vour  mother  loved 
me.  That  is  a  thing  to  make  one  think  better  of 
one's  self.  I  need  it,  sir.  It  is  a  pretty  sort  of 
vanity,  and  how  vain  you  must  be,  who  had  so  much 
of  her  love !  " 

"  I  thank  thee,"  I  said  simply.  Indeed,  for  a  time 
I  was  so  moved  that  say  more  I  could  not.     "  I  thank 


1 90      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

thee,  Miss  Peniston.  There  is  no  one  on  earth  whom 
I  would  rather  hear  say  what  thou  hast  said." 

I  saw  her  coloiu'  a  little,  and  she  replied  quickly,  "  I 
am  only  a  child,  and  I  say  what  comes  to  my  lips ;  I 
might  better  it  often  if  I  stayed  to  think." 

"  No  !  "  I  cried.  Whenever  she  got  into  trouble— 
and  she  was  ready  to  note  the  tenderness  in  my 
voice— this  pretty  pretext  of  the  irresponsibility  of 
childhood  would  serve  her  turn.  "  No,"  said  I ;  "  I 
like  dearly  to  hear  my  mother  praised, — who  could 
praise  her  too  much?— but  when  it  is  thou  who 
sayest  of  her  such  true  things,  how  shall  I  tell  thee 
what  it  is  to  me  who  love  to  hear  thee  talk— even 
nonsense  ?  " 

''  I  talk  nonsense  ?    Do  I  ? " 

"Yes,  sometimes.  I— want  thee  to  listen  to  me. 
I  have  cared  for  thee — " 

"  Now  please  don't,  Mr.  Wynne.  They  all  do  it, 
and— I  like  you.     I  want  to  keep  some  friends." 

"  It  is  useless,  Darthea.  I  am  so  made  that  I  must 
say  my  say.  Thou  mayest  try  to  escape,  and  hate  it 
and  me,  but  I  have  to  say  I  love  thee.  No,  I  am  not 
a  boy.  I  am  a  man,  and  I  won't  let  thee  answer  me 
now." 

"  I  do  not  want  to.  It  would  hurt  you.  You  must 
know ;  every  one  knows.  It  was  his  fault  and  my 
aunt's,  all  this  gossip.     I  would  have  kept  it  quiet." 

"  It  will  never  be,"  I  broke  out.  "  Thou  wilt  never 
marry  that  man ! "  I  knew  when  I  said  this  that 
I  had  made  a  mistake.  I  had  learned  to  distrust 
Arthur ;  but  I  had  too  little  that  was  of  moment  to 


Huf^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      191 


say  agiiiust  liim  to  make  it  wise  to  speak  as  I  had 
done.     I  wi\s  youu}^  in  those  days,  and  hasty. 

"  Who  ? ''  says  my  hid}',  all  ou  fii'e.  "  "Wliat  man  ? 
Jack  Wai-der  ?  And  why  not  ?  I  do  not  know  what 
I  shall  do." 

''  It  is  not  my  detu-  Jack,''  I  cried.  "  Why  dost  thou 
trifle  with  me  ? " 

"  Your  dear  Jack,  indeed  !  How  he  blushes !  I 
mijj:ht  ask  him.    He  never  would  have  the  courage." 

"It  is  my  cousin,  ^\j*thur  Wynne,  as  thou  weU 
knowest.  And  thou  ai't  -sN-icked  to  mock  at  an  honest 
gentleman  with  thy  hglit  talk.  Thou  dost  not  know 
the  man,  this  man,  my  cousin." 

'*  Only  a  boy  would  be  so  fooUsh  or  so  unfair  as  to 
speak  thus  of  one  beliind  his  back,  and  to  a  woman 
too,  who — "     And  she  paused,  confused  and  angry. 

I  could  not  tell  her  what  was  only  suspicion  or 
hearsay  as  to  my  cousin's  double  statements  concern- 
ing his  father's  estate,  or  how  either  she  or  we  were 
deceived,  I  had,  in  fact,  lost  my  head  a  little,  and 
had  gone  further  than  was  wise.  I  woidd  not  exphiin, 
and  I  was  too  vexed  to  say  more  than  that  I  woidd 
say  the  same  to  his  face.    Then  she  rejoined  softly : 

"Tell  it  to  me.  You  are  as  mysterious  as  Miss 
Wynne ;  and  have  I  not  a  right  to  know  ? " 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  not  now,  at  least.  Thou  mayest 
tell  him  if  thou  wilt." 

"  If  I  will,  indeed  !  Every  one  is  against  him — you 
and  Mistress  Wyime  and  that  impudent  boy,  Jack 
Warder,  despite  his  lilushes.  Oh,  ho  can  be  bold 
enough.     Isn't  he  a  dear  fellow?" 


192      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

How  could  one  deal  with  a  woman  like  this?  T 
hesitated,  and  as  I  did  so,  not  having  ready  anything 
but  sad  reproaches  of  her  levity,  my  aunt  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"  Are  you  two  children  quarrelling  ?  "  she  said,  in. 
her  outspoken  way.  "  You  will  have  time  to  repent. 
Here  has  been  youi*  father,  sir,  to-day,  and  his  affairs 
in  Jamaica  are  all  in  a  nice  pickle,  and  you  and  the 
old  clerk  are  to  up  and  away  in  the  packet  for  Kings- 
ton, and  that  to-morrow." 

"  Indeed !  "  I  cried.     I  was  not  sorry. 

**I  envy  you,"  said  my  lady,  as  demure  as  you 
please.  "  You  will  fetch  me  a  feather  fan,  and  come 
back  soon.  I  hate  all  those  cornets  and  captains,  and 
now  I  shall  have  no  one  but  Jack." 

My  aunt  looked  on  amused.  Her  news  was  true 
indeed,  and  with  no  chance  to  talk  to  any  one,  except 
to  say  a  mere  good-by  to  Jack,  I  spent  the  evening 
with  my  father  and  our  head  clerk  over  the  business 
which  took  me  away  so  hastUy.  At  early  morning 
on  a  cold  day  at  the  close  of  April,  1774,  we  were 
gliding  down  the  Delaware  with  all  sail  set. 

The  voyage  was  long,  the  winds  contrary.  I  had 
ample  leisure  to  reflect  upon  my  talk  with  Darthea. 
I  was  sure  she  must  have  known  she  was  to  me  not 
as  other  women.  Except  for  the  accident  of  this 
chance  encounter,  I  might  long  have  waited  before 
finding  courage  to  speak.  I  had  made  nothing  by  it, 
had  scarce  had  an  answer,  and  should,  like  enough, 
have  fallen  back  into  the  coldness  of  relation,  by 
which  she  had  so  long  kept  me  at  a  distance.    I  had 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       193 

been  foolish  and  hasty  to  speak  of  my  cousin  at  all ; 
it  did  but  vex  her. 

Of  my  errand  in  Jamaica  there  is  Uttle  to  be  said. 
My  father's  hitters  were  of  business  only.  Of  these 
lung  months  and  of  what  went  on  at  home  I  heard 
but  little  from  him,  and  with  my  request  to  have  the 
gazettes  he  had  evidently  no  mind  to  comply;  nor 
were  the  chances  of  letters  frequent.  I  heard,  indeed, 
from  my  aunt  but  twice,  and  from  Jack  thrice ;  but 
he  said  nothing  of  Darthea.  Years  after  I  found  in 
his  record  of  events  : 

*'  Hugh  left  us  the  last  of  April.  It  may  be  he 
cares  too  nuK-h  for  that  wayward  witch,  Darthea." 

I  shoidd  say  that  it  was  at  this  time  or  soon  after 
my  dear  friend  began  to  keep  a  some wL at  broken 
diary  of  events.  Wliat  he  says  of  former  years  was 
put  on  paper  long  afterward. 

•'  If  I  did  but  know,"  writes  Jack,  "  that  he  is  se- 
riously taken,  I  should  understand,  alas !  w^hat  not 
U)  do.  But  as  to  some  tilings  Ilugh  is  a  silent  man. 
I  think  as  Mr.  Wilson  savs,  some  men  are  made  for 
friends,  and  some  for  lovers.  I  fear  the  latter  is  not 
my  role.  Is  tliere— can  there  be— such  a  thing  as 
revering  a  woman  too  much  to  make  successful  love  ? 
I  think  I  see  what  Darthea  is  more  truly  than  does 
my  dear  Ilugli.  There  must  come  a  day  when  she 
will  show  it.  Sometimes  I  can  hardly  trust  myself 
with  her ;  and  I  yearn  to  tell  her  that  I  alone  know 
her,  and  that  I  love  her.  I  must  watch  myself.  If 
it  really  l>e  that  Hugh  cares  for  lier,  and  yet  I  were 
to  be  the  fortunate  man,  how  coidd  I  face  him  again, 


194      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

having  had  the  advantage  of  his  long  absence  ?  It 
seems  strange  that  I  should  ask  myself  if  I  am  more 
her  lover  than  his  friend.  He  does  not  talk  of  her 
to  me. 

"  It  is  now  September,  '74,  and  Hugh  must  soon 
return.  Mr.  Gage  is  fortifying  Boston  Neck,  and 
we  have  had  the  mischievous  Boston  Port  Bill, 
and  Virginia  up  in  a  rage,  which  I  do  not  under- 
stand. We,  who  have  our  commerce  crippled  by 
foolish  laws,  may  well  be  on  the  side  of  resistance ; 
but  why  the  planters  should  put  in  peril  their  only 
tobacco  market  I  see  less  well.  A  Continental  Con- 
gress is  to  meet  here  on  the  fifth  day  of  this  month, 
and  already  the  town  is  alive  with  gentlemen  from 
the  South  and  North. 

"No  doubt  Darthea  has  letters  from  Mr,  Arthur 
Wynne.  I  think  Mr.  Wilson  judges  that  man  cor- 
rectly. He  says  he  is  selfish,  and  more  weak  as  to 
morals  than  really  bad,  and  that  he  wiU  be  apt  to 
yield  to  sudden  temptation  rather  than  to  plan  de- 
liberate wickedness.  Why  should  he  have  need 
to  plan  at  all?  Mistress  WjTine  says  he  does  not 
like  Hugh.  How  could  any  not  hke  my  Hugh,  and 
how  do  women  see  the  things  which  we  do  not  ? 

"  It  is  sad  to  see  my  father's  state  of  mind.  Yes- 
terday he  was  with  me  to  visit  Mr.  Hancock,  very 
fine  in  a  purple  velvet  coat  with  gold  buttons,  and 
a  flowered  waistcoat.  He  is  our  correspondent  in 
Boston.  My  father  came  home  a  hot  Wliig ;  and  to- 
morrow is  Meeting-day,  and  he  will  be  most  melan- 
choly, and  aU  for  the  king  if  this,  and  that  should 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       195 

happen.  John  Wynne  can  turn  him  which  way  he 
likes.  If  my  Hugh  remains  of  a  Wliig  mind— and 
who  less  like  to  change?— he  will  have  a  hot  time 
with  liis  father,  I  fear."' 

Is  it  any  wonder  I,  his  friend,  loved  this  man? 
He  seemed  so  gentle  that  all  but  I,  even  James 
Wilson,  misunderstood  him.  No  more  obstinate  fel- 
low ever  was  or  Avill  be.  I  ought  to  say  "  determined,'* 
for  there  was  always  a  reason  of  head  or  heart  for 
what  he  would  or  would  not  do,  and  I  rciilly  think 
that  in  ail  liis  noble  life  lie  had  but  one  hour  of 
weakness,  of  which  by  and  by  I  may  ha\'o  to  ttll. 


XIII 

WAS  to  have  come  home  earlier,  but  in 
June  I  got  letters  from  my  father  in- 
structing me  to  await  a  vessel  which 
would  reach  Jamaica  in  June,  and  sail 
thence  to  Madeira.  There  were  careful 
instructions  given  as  to  purchase  of  wines,  and  the 
collection  of  delayed  payments  for  staves,  in  the 
wine  islands. 

I  did  not  like  it,  but  I  was  young,  and  to  travel 
had  its  charm  after  all.  Had  there  been  no  Darthea, 
I  had  been  altogether  pleased.  The  excuse  of  this 
new  business  made  me  smile.  It  was  clear  my  father 
was  using  that  pretext  to  keep  me  out  of  the  mischief 
which  was  involving  most  young  men  of  courage,  and 
creating  in  them  a  desire  to  train  as  soldiers  in  the 
organisations  which  were  everywhere  being  formed. 
He  was  unwise  enough  to  say  that  my  cousin,  from 
whom  he  had  heard,  sent  his  love,  and  was  glad  I 
was  out  of  our  disloyal  and  uneasy  country. 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  and  thus  it  chanced  that 
not  until  September  did  I  see  the  red  brick  houses  of 
my  native  city.  Late  news  I  had  almost  none,  for 
none  reached  me,  and  I  was  become  wild  with  desire 
to  learn  what  the  summer  months  had  brought  forth. 

196 


Hui^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      197 


On  the  fifth  day  of  September,  1774,  at  seven  in 
the  inoruiug,  I  saw  my  Jack  in  a  boat  come  out  to 
meet  me  as  we  came  to  anchor  in  the  stream.  He 
looked  bro\\'u  and  handsome,  reddening  with  joy  as 
he  made  me  welcome.  All  wei-e  well,  he  said.  I  did 
not  ask  fnrDarthea. 

My  father  was  on  the  slip,  and  told  me  that  business 
miirht  wait  until  the  eveniuir.  ^ly  auut  had  not  been 
well,  luul  would  see  me  at  once.  Tliis  really  was  all, 
and  I  miirht  have  been  any  one  but  his  son  for  what 
there  was  in  his  mode  of  meeting  me.  I  widked  with 
Jack  to  my  Aunt  Gainoi-'s,  where  he  left  me.  I  was 
pleased  to  see  the  deiu-  lady  at  her  breakfast,  in  a  white 
gOAvn  with  frills  and  a  lace  tucker,  with  a  queen's 
nightcap  sueli  as  Lady  Wasliington  wore  when  I  first 
saw  her.  ^Mistress  Wynne  looked  a  great  figure  in 
white,  and  fell  on  mv  neck  and  kissed  me  :  and  I  must 
sit  do\m,  and  here  were  cotfee  and  hot  girdle-cakes 
and  blueberries,  and  what  not.  Did  I  like  Jamaica? 
And  had  I  fetched  some  fans  ?  She  must  have  her 
choice ;  and  rum,  she  hoped,  I  had  not  forgot.  How 
well  I  looked,  and  my  eyes  were  bluer  than  ever! 
Was  it  the  sea  had  got  into  them?  and  so  on. 

1  asked  about  the  Congress,  and  she  was  off  in  a 
moment.  Mr.  John  Adams  had  been  to  see  her,  and 
that  cat,  Bessy  Ferguson,  had  been  nide  to  him.  An 
ill-dressed  man,  but  clear  of  head  and  veiy  positive ; 
and  the  members  from  Virginia  she  liked  better. 
Mr.  Peyton  Randolph  had  called;  and  I  would  like 
Mr.  Pendleton ;  he  had  most  deliglitfid  manners. 
Mr.  Livingston  had  been  good  enough  to  remember 


198      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

me,  and  had  asked  for  me.  He  thought  we  must 
soon  choose  a  general,  and  Mr.  Washington  had  been 
talked  of. 

"  Has  it  come  to  that  ? "  said  I. 

"Yes;  all  the  North  is  up,  and  G-age  has  more 
troops  and  is  at  work  intrenching  himself,  he  who  was 
to  settle  us  with  three  regiments.  Mrs.  Chew  was 
here,  and  behaved  like  the  lady  she  is.  But  they  are 
all  in  a  nice  mess.  Master  Hugh,  and  know  not  what 
to  do.  I  hate  these  moderates.  Mr.  Washington  is 
a  man  as  big  as  your  father,  and  better  builded.  I 
like  him,  although  he  says  Httle  and  did  not  so  much 
as  smile  at  Bessy  Ferguson's  nonsense.  And  Dar- 
thea— you  do  not  ask  about  Darthea.  She  is  play- 
ing the  mischief  with  Jack  and  her  captain.  She 
will  not  let  me  talk  about  him.  He  is  in  Boston  with 
Mr.  Gage,  I  hear.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  about 
yourscK  ? " 

"How  could  I,  Aunt  Gainor?  Thou—"  and  I 
laughed. 

Then  she  became  grave.  "  You  will  have  to  declare 
yourseK  and  take  sides ;  and  how  can  I  counsel  you 
to  resist  your  father  ?  You  mus}:  think  it  over  and 
talk  to  Mr.  Wilson.  He  is  of  the  Congress.  Poor 
Mr.  Wetherill  the  Meeting  has  a  mind  to  bounce, 
and  he  takes  it  hard.  Come  back  at  eleven,  and 
we  will  go  to  Chestnut  street,  where  they  meet, 
and  see  the  gentlemen  go  into  the  Carpenters'  Hall. 
I  came  to  town  on  purpose.  And  now  go ;  I  must 
dress." 

At  half -past  ten — my  aunt  very  splendid — we  drove 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       199 

do\m  Second  street  and  up  Chestnut,  where  was  a 
givat  crowd  come  to  look  on.  Dr.  Kush,  seeing  my 
aunt's  chariot,  got  in  at  ISecond  street,  and,  being  one 
of  the  members,  enabled  us  to  get  near  to  Cai"penters' 
AUt'V,  where  at  the  far  end,  back  from  the  street,  is 
the  old  building  in  which  the  Congress  was  to  be  held. 
Jack  met  us  here,  and  got  up  beside  the  coachman. 
I  think  none  had  a  better  v-iew  than  we.  Andrew 
Allen  came  to  speak  to  us,  and  then  Mr.  Galloway, 
not  yet  seared  by  the  extreme  measures  of  which  few 
as  vet  dreamed,  and  which  bv  and  bv  drove  these  and 
many  other  gentlemen  into  open  declarations  for  the 
crown. 

I  saw  James  Pemberton  looking  on  sadly,  and 
near  him  other  Friends  with  sour  aspects.  Here  and 
there  militia  uniforms  were  seen  amid  the  dull  gi'ays, 
the  smocks  of  farmers  and  mechanics,  and  the  sober 
suits  of  tradesmen,  all  come  to  see. 

"  The  Kev.  Dr.  Duche  passed  us,"  says  Jack,  whom 
now  I  quote,  "in  a  fine  ^^^g  and  black  silk  small- 
clothes. He  was  to  make  this  day  the  famous  prayer 
which  so  moved  Mr.  Adams."  And  later,  I  may 
add,  he  went  over  to  the  other  side.  "  Soon  others 
came.  Some  we  knew  not,  but  the  great  Dr.  Kush 
pointed  out  such  as  were  of  his  ac(iuaintance. 

"  '  There,'  he  said,  '  is  Carter  Braxton.  He  tells 
me  he  docs  not  like  the  New  England  men  — cither 
their  religion  or  their  manners;  and  I  like  thcin 
bdth.'  The  doctor  was  cynical,  I  thought,  but  very 
int<'resting.  I  set  do^vn  but  little  of  what  he  said 
or  I  saw ;  for  most  of  it  I  forget. 


200      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


" '  There  is  the  great  Virginia  orator,  Mr.  Patrick 
Henry/  said  the  doctor.  He  was  in  simple  dress, 
and  looked  up  at  ns  curiously  as  he  went  by  with 
Pendleton  and  Mr.  Carroll.  '  He  has  a  gi^eat  estate 
—Mr.  Carroll,'  said  the  doctor.  'I  wonder  he  will 
risk  it.'  He  was  dressed  in  brown  silk  breeches,  with 
a  yellow  figui-ed  waistcoat,  and,  like  many  of  them, 
wore  his  sword.  Mr.  Franklin  was  not  yet  come 
home,  and  some  were  late. 

"Presently  the  doctor  called,  and  a  man  in  the 
military  dress  of  the  Virginia  militia  turned  toward 
us.  'Colonel  Washington,'  said  our  doctor,  'will 
permit  me  to  present  him  to  a  lady,  a  great  friend 
of  hberty.     Mistress  Wynne,  Colonel  Washington.' 

" '  I  have  already  had  the  honour,'  he  said,  taking 
off  his  hat— a  scrolled  beaver. 

"  '  He  is  our  best  soldier,  and  we  are  fortunate  that 
he  is  with  us,'  said  the  doctor,  as  the  colonel  moved 
away." 

The  doctor  changed  his  mind  later,  and  helped,  I 
fear,  to  make  the  trouble  which  came  near  to  cost- 
ing Conway  his  life.  I  have  always  been  a  great 
admirer  of  line  men,  and  as  the  Virginia  colonel 
moved  like  Saul  above  the  crowd,  an  erect,  well-pro- 
portioned figure,  he  looked  taller  than  he  really 
was,  but,  as  my  aunt  had  said,  was  not  of  the  big- 
ness of  my  father. 

"  He  has  a  good  nose,"  said  my  Aunt  Gainor,  per- 
haps conscious  of  her  own  possessions  in  the  way 
of  a  nasal  organ,  and  liking  to  see  it  as  notable  in 
another  J  "  but  how  sedate  he  is  !     I  find  Mr.  Peyton 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      201 

Randolph  more  agreeable,  and  there  is  Mr.  Robert 
Morris  and  John  Dickinson." 

Then  John  Adams  went  by,  deep  in  talk  with 
Roger  Sherman,  whom  I  thonght  shabbily  dressed  ; 
and  behind  them  Robert  Livingston,  whom  my 
aunt  knew.  Thus  it  was,  as  I  am  glad  to  remem- 
ber, that  I  beheld  these  men  who  were  to  be  the 
makers  of  an  empire.  Perhaps  no  wiser  group  of 
people  ever  met  for  a  greater  fate,  and  siu-ely  the 
hand  of  God  was  seen  in  the  matter;  for  what 
other  colony— Canada,  for  example,— had  such  men 
to  show?  There,  meanwhile,  was  England,  Avith  its 
great  nobles  and  free  commons  and  a  splendid  story 
of  hard-won  freedom,  driving  madly  on  its  way  of 
folly  and  defeat. 

Of  what  went  on  within  the  hall  we  heard  little. 
A  declaration  of  rights  was  set  forth,  committees  of 
correspondence  appointed,  and  addresses  issued  to  the 
king  and  people  of  Great  Britain.  Congress  broke 
up,  and  the  winter  went  by ;  Gage  was  superseded 
by  Sir  William  Ilowe ;  Clinton  and  BurgojTie  were 
sent  out,  and  ten  thousand  men  were  ordered  to 
America  to  aid  the  pm*poses  of  the  king. 

The  cold  season  was  soon  upon  us,  and  the  event- 
ful year  of  '75  came  in  with  a  great  fall  of  snow,  but 
with  no  great  change  for  me  and  those  I  loved.  A 
sullen  rage  possessed  the  colonies,  and  especially  Mas- 
sachusett.s,  where  the  Regulation  Acts  Avere  quietly 
disregarded.  No  counsellors  or  jurvmrn  would  serve 
under  the  king's  commission.  The  old  muskets  of 
the  French  and  Indian  wars  were  taken  from  the 


202      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

corners  and  put  in  order.  Men  drilled,  and  women 
east  bullets. 

Failing  to  corrupt  Samuel  Adams  and  Hancock, 
Gage  resolved  to  arrest  them  at  Concord  and  to  seize 
on  the  stores  of  powder  and  ball.  "■  The  heads  of  trai- 
tors will  soon  decorate  Temple  Bar,"  said  a  London 
gazette;  and  so  the  march  of  events  went  on.  In 
the  early  spring  Dr.  Franklin  came  home  in  despair 
of  accommodation ;  he  saw  nothing  now  to  do  but  to 
fight,  and  this  he  told  us  plainly.  His  very  words 
were  in  my  mind  on  the  night  of  April  23d  of  this 
year  of  '75,  as  I  was  slowly  and  thoughtfully  walk- 
ing over  the  bridge  where  Walnut  crossed  the  Dock 
Creek,  and  where  I  stayed  for  a  moment  to  strike  flint 
and  steel  in  order  to  light  my  pipe.  Of  a  sudden  I 
heard  a  dull  but  increasing  noise  to  north,  and  then 
the  strong  voice  of  the  bell  in  the  state-house.  It  was 
not  ringing  for  fire.  Somewhat  puzzled,  I  walked 
swiftly  to  Second  street,  where  were  men  and  wo- 
men in  groups.  I  stopped  a  man  and  asked  what 
had  chanced.  He  said,  "  A  battle !  a  battle !  and 
General  Gage  killed."  Couriers  had  reached  the 
coffee-houses,  but  no  one  on  the  street  seemed  to 
have  more  than  this  vague  information;  all  were 
going  toward  Chestnut  street,  where  a  meeting  was 
to  be  held,  as  I  learned,  and  perhaps  fuller  news 
given  out. 

I  pushed  on,  still  hearing  the  brazen  clamour  of  the 
bell.  As  I  crossed  High  street  I  came  upon  James 
Wilson  and  Mr.  Graydon.  They  stopped  me  to  tell 
of  the  great  tidings  just  come  by  swift  post-riders 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      203 

of  the  fight  at  Lexington.  After  gi\'ing  me  the  full 
details,  Wilson  left  us.  Said  Graydon,  very  serious : 
"Mr.  Wynne,  how  long  are  you  to  be  in  deciding? 
Gome  and  join  Mr.  Cadwalader's  troop.  Few  of  us 
ride  as  well  as  you." 

I  said  I  had  been  thinking. 

"  Oil,  confound  your  thinkings !  It  is  action  now. 
Let  the  bigwigs  think." 

I  could  not  tell  a  man  I  then  knew  but  slightly 
how  immense  was  my  reluctiuice  to  make  this  com- 
plete break  with  the  creed  of  my  father,  and  to  abso- 
lutely disobey  him,  as  I  knew  I  must  do  if  I  followed 
my  inclinations;  nor  did  I  incline  to  speak  of  such 
other  diihculties  as  still  kept  me  undecided.  I  .^aid 
at  last  that  if  I  took  tip  anus  it  would  be  with  Mac- 
pherson  or  Cowperthwaite's  Quakei*s. 

"  Why  not  ? "  he  said.  "  But,  by  George  !  man,  do 
something !  There  ai*e,  I  hear,  man}'  Friends  among 
the  Cowperthwaite  Blues.  Do  they  give  orders  with 
'  thou '  and  '  thee,'  I  wonder  ? " 

I  laughed,  and  hurried  away.  The  town  was  al- 
ready in  a  state  of  vast  excitement,  women  in  tears, 
and  men  stopping  even  those  they  did  not  kuow  to  ask 
for  news.  I  ran  all  the  way  to  my  aunt's,  eager  to 
tell  it.  In  the  hall  I  stood  a  miuute  to  get  my  breath, 
and  reflect.  I  kuew  full  well,  as  I  recognised  vari- 
ous voices,  that  my  intelligence  would  mean  tears 
for  some,  and  joy  for  others. 

My  long-taught  Quaker  .self-control  often  served 
me  as  well  as  the  practised  calm  I  observed  to  be  the 
expression  assumed  by  the  best-bred  oflicers  of  the 


204      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

army  on  occasions  that  caused  visible  emotion  in 
others.  I  went  in  quietly,  seeing  a  well-amused  party 
of  dames  and  younger  folk,  with,  over  against  the 
chimneypiece,  the  great  Benjamin  Franklin,  now  in 
the  full  prime  of  varied  usefulness,  a  benevolent  face, 
and  above  it  the  great  dome  of  head,  which  had  to  me 
even  then  a  certain  grandeur.  He  was  talking  eagerly 
with  Mistress  Wynne— two  striking  figures. 

Mr.  Galloway  was  in  chat  with  his  kinsman,  Mr. 
Chew.  The  younger  women,  in  a  group,  were  mak- 
ing themselves  merry  with  my  friend  Jack,  who  was 
a  bit  awkward  in  a  fine  suit  I  had  plagued  him  into 
buying.  And  what  a  beauty  he  was,  as  he  stood, 
half  pleased  with  the  teasing,  blushing  now  and  then, 
and  fencing  prettily  in  talk,  as  I  knew  by  the  laugh- 
ter !  At  the  tables  the  elder  women  were  gambling, 
and  intent  on  their  little  gains  and  losses,  while  the 
vast  play  of  a  nobler  game  was  going  on  in  the 
greater  world  of  men. 

To  my  sui'prise,  I  saw  among  the  guests  an  Eng- 
lish lieutenant.  I  say  "  to  my  surprise,"  for  the  other 
officers  had  gone  of  their  own  accord,  or  had  been 
ordered  to  leave  by  the  Committee  of  Safety.  This 
one,  and  another,  were,  as  I  learned  afterward,  on 
their  way  through  the  town  to  join  General  Gage. 
There  was  evidently  some  dispute  as  to  the  cards. 
I  heard  high-pitched  voices,  and  "  spadille,"  "  basto,'* 
"  matador  "—  all  the  queer  words  of  quadrille,  then* 
favoured  game. 

The  lieutenant  was  bending  over  Mrs.  Ferguson's 
chair.     He  was  a  fellow  I  had  seen  before  and  never 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      205 

liked,  a  viilpir-featiired  luau,  too  fat  for  his  years, 
which  may  have  been  some  tweuty-eijrht.  He  played 
the  best  liand  of  all  of  them,  and,  as  my  aunt  de- 
clared, that  was  quite  enough  ;  for  the  rest  she  coidd 
keep  any  man  in  order.  I  lu'ld  baek  in  the  gloom 
of  the  ludl.  looking  at  their  busy  gaiety,  and  wonder- 
ing what  thcv  would  sav  to  mv  news. 

As  I  went  in  I  lu'ard  Woodville,  the  lieutenant,  say, 
*'  The  king— play  the  king,  Mrs.  Ferguson." 

"  No  advice  !  "  cried  Mrs.  GuHoway. 

"  But  I  am  betting,"  said  he.  "  The  king  forever ! 
We  have  won,  madam.    The  king  Ls  always  in  luck." 

I  could  not  resist  saying, "  The  king  has  lost,  ladies." 

My  auut  turned,  and  knew  I  meant  something.  I 
suppose  my  face  may  have  been  more  grave  than  my 
words.     "Vhat  is  it,  Hugh  ?  " 

"  I  have  strange  news.  Aunt  Gainor." 

"  News  ?  and  what  ? "  As  she  spoke  the  talk  ceased, 
and  ever}'  one  looked  up. 

"  There  has  been  a  fight  at  Lexington.  Major  Pit- 
caira  is  beat,  and  mv  Lord  Percv.  The  farmers  were 
all  up  to  hinder  them  as  they  were  on  their  way  to 
seize  our  powder,  and  to  take  Mr.  Hancock.  The 
king  has  lost  some  tliree  hundred  men,  and  we  under 
a  hundred." 

''  (rood  heavens  I  "  said  Mr.  Galloway.  "  But  it 
cannot  be  true." 

A  pause  came  after,  as  I  said  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it. 

Dr.  Franklin  asked  if  I  was  sure.  I  said,  "  Yes ; 
I  have  it  of  James  Wilson,  and  the  town  is  already 


2o6      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

in  an  uproar  over  it."  The  great  philosopher  re- 
mained deep  in  thought  a  moment,  while  the  women 
sat  or  stood  in  fear,  or  whispering  excitement.  At 
last  he  said  he  must  go,  and  that  it  was  the  beginning 
of  war,  and  welcome  too.  Then  he  bowed  gravely 
and  went  out.  As  he  left,  the  stillness  which  had 
prevailed  for  a  time  was  broken. 

A  dozen  questions  fell  on  me  from  all  sides.  I 
could  only  repeat  my  story,  as  Jack  went  by  me  to 
go  out  and  hear,  if  possible,  more  of  the  news  than  I 
had  to  tell. 

At  last  Mr.  Chew  said  thoughtfully,  "  If  it  be  true, 
it  is  a  sad  business ;  but,  really,  how  can  it  be,  Hugh  ? 
How  could  a  lot  of  farmers,  without  good  arms  and 
discipline,  put  to  rout  a  body  of  trained  men,  well 
armed "? " 

''I  think,"  said  Galloway,  "we  shall  have  quite 
another  version  to-morrow.  How  does  it  strike  you, 
Mr.  WoodviUe?" 

*'0h,  quite  absurd,"  said  the  officer.  "You  may 
reassure  yourselves,  ladies ;  such  a  loss,  too,  would  be 
incredible,  even  in  regular  war.  I  think  we  may  go 
on  with  our  game,  Mrs.  Ferguson."  He  was  very 
pompous,  but  none  seemed  inclined  to  take  his  advice. 

"  And  yet  I  don't  like  it,"  said  a  lady  of  the  Tory 
side. 

"  And  I  do,"  said  Mistress  Wynne.  "  It  is  as  good 
news  as  I  have  heard  this  many  a  day." 

"  It  is  nonsense !  "  said  the  officer ;  "  sheer  non- 
sense !  You  have  strange  notions,  madam,  as  to 
what  is  good  news.     It  is  only  another  rebel  lie." 


Hugh  W^ynne  :  Free  Quaker      207 

*'  I  think  not,"  said  I,  venturing  to  add  that  men 
vrho  could  kill  squirrels  would  rarely  miss  a  man, 
and  that  many  of  the  older  farmers  had  fought  In- 
dians and  French,  and  had,  I  suspected,  picked  off 
the  officL'i-s. 

"  How  hoirid  1  "  said  Darthea. 

Ilad  a  stra}'  bullet  found  my  cousin  I  should  not 
have  grieved  profoundly. 

"You  see  where  all  your  neutrality  and  loyalty 
have  brought  you,"  said  Mistress  Wynne.  *'  I  wish 
King  George  were  with  Mr.  Gage ;  he  might  learn 
wisdom.     'T  is  but  the  beginniug  of  a  good  end." 

"  May  I  remind  you,"  said  "Woodville,  very  red  in 
the  face,  "  that  I  am  his  Majesty's  officer  ? " 

"  No,  3'ou  may  not  remind  me.  A  fig  for  his  Maj- 
estj' !  "  cried  my  aunt,  now  in  one  of  her  tantrums. 

"Shame  !  "  cried  Mi's.  Ferguson,  rising,  as  did  the 
rest,  some  in  teai-s  and  some  saving  Mrs.  Ferguson 
was  right,  or  tlie  Lord  knows  what— not  at  all  a 
pleasant  scene  j  the  men  very  silent,  or  vexed,  or 
troubled. 

My  Aunt  Gainor,  as  they  filed  out,  made  them 
each  her  finest  curtsey.  Darthea  stood  still,  looking 
grave  enough.  Mr.  "Woodville,  the  lieutenant,  lin- 
gered, made  his  adieus  very  decently,  and  went  out, 
I  showing  him  the  way.  On  the  step  he  said:  "I 
do  not  (juarrel  with  women ;  but  I  have  heard  that 
in  Mistress  Wynne's  house,  to  which,  as  an  officer 
of  his  ]\Iajesty,  I  cannot  submit." 

"  Well  f "  I  said ;  and  my  abominable  propensity 
to  grin  got  the  better  of  me. 


2o8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  You  seem  amused,  sir,"  he  said. 

I  was  by  no  means  amused. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  responsible,"  he  added.  "  Miss 
Wynne  might  have  better  manners,  and  her  nephew 
more  courage.  However,  I  have  said  what  ought  to 
be  enough  with  English  gentlemen.   Good-evening." 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to  give  thee  a  good  honest 
thrashing,"  said  I. 

"I  dare  say.  You  are  big  enough.  Master  Quaker ; 
but  I  presume  that  about  the  weapons  common  among 
men  of  honour  you  know  as  much  as  I  know  of 
making  horseshoes." 

I  was  now  cool  enough  and  angry  enough  to  have 
killed  him.  "  Thy  friend  can  find  me  here,"  said  I. 
"  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  satisfy  thee." 

With  this  he  went  away,  and  I  stood  looking  after 
his  stumpy  fig-ure.  I  was  again  in  a  broil,  not  of  my 
making ;  just  a  bit  of  ill  luck,  for  here  was  a  nice 
business.  I  went  in,  and  was  caught  on  my  way 
upstairs  by  my  Aunt  Gainor,  who  called  me  into 
the  sitting-room. 

Still  too  furious  to  be  prudent,  she  broke  out  be- 
fore Darthea.  "  Insolent  idiots !  I  hope  I  made  Mr. 
Galloway  understand,  and  the  rest  of  them  too !  I 
trust  Bessy  Ferguson  will  never  darken  my  doors 
again  !  "  She  walked  up  and  down,  and  at  last  up- 
set a  big  mandarin,  who  came  head  down  on  the 
hearth. 

"  I  wish  he  were  Mr.  Gage !  "  said  my  aunt,  con- 
templating the  fragments. 

"  I  dare  say  he  was  a  Tory,"  says  Darthea,  wh.j 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      209 

feared  no  one.  "  And  I  am  a  Torj'  too,  ]\liss  Wynne, 
I  would  have  you  to  know." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  my  aunt ;  "  it  does  n't  matter 
much  wliat  vou  think,  or  what  vou  are.  You  had 
some  words  with  that  stupid  man,  sii* ;  I  saw  you.  He 
looked  as  if  he  did  not  like  it.   Oh,  1  heard  you,  too." 

I  vainly  shook  my  head  at  her. 

"  Ai'e  you  two  ijoing:  to  fight  ?  I  am  not  sorry ! 
I  wish  I  eoidd  have  that  cat  Ferguson  out." 

"  I  hope— oh— I  am  sure,  Mr.  Wynne,  it  cannot  be. 
How  dreadful !  "  said  Darthea. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  my  aunt.  "  A  man  cannot 
stand  everything  like  a  woman." 

I  said  i)laiuly,  seeing  how  vain  my  aunt  had  made 
conceahnent,  that  there  had  been  some  words,  but 
that  I  trusted  no  harm  would  come  of  it. 

''  But  there  will !  there  will !  "  said  Miss  PenLston. 

"  ^leroy  upon  us  !  "  cried  my  aunt ;  for  here  was 
Darthea  on  the  floor,  and  burnt  feathers  and  vinegar 
at  hand,  servants  running  about,  my  aunt  ordering 
**  Cut  her  stay-stiings !  "  as  I  was  turned  out,  hearing 
my  aunt  declare,  "  I  do  believe  she  is  in  love  'with  all 
the  men.  Is  it  you  or  the  captain  ?  "\Miat  a  shame- 
less monkey  to  tumble  all  of  a  heap  that  way !  It  is 
hardly  decent.  Do  go  away,  you  goose  !  'T  is  a  way 
she  has      Did  never  you  see  a  woman  faint?" 

I  never  did,  and  I  was  scared  faint  myself.    "WHiat 

between  Darthea's  fainting  spell,  and  this  quarrel  not 

of  my  seeking,  I  was  uneomfortaljle  enough.     I  had 

no  one  but  Jack  to  appeal  to ;  and  here  was  a  pair 

of  Quaker  lads,  ju.^t  over  twenty-two,  in  a  proper 
u 


21  o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

scrape.  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  getting  out 
of  it,  save  in  one  way.  The  sneer  at  my  aunt  was 
more  than  I  coukl  endure.  What  my  father  would 
think  was  another  matter. 

Mr.  Wilson  used  to  say :  "  When  you  are  in  difficul- 
ties dispose  of  the  worst  first ;"  and  so  I  resolved,  as  I 
must  fight  the  man,  and  that  was  the  imminent  matter, 
to  set  aside  all  thought  of  my  parent,  until  I  was  done 
with  Mr.  Woodville.  Jack  I  took  for  granted,  and 
so  left  a  note  with  the  servant  asking  my  opponent's 
friend  to  call  on  Jack  at  an  hour  when  he  was  like 
to  be  alone.  Before  I  could  leave  to  warn  him  of 
what  was  on  hand  my  aunt  came  to  me. 

"  I  sent  that  girl  home  in  the  chaise.  It  was  her 
fear  lest  some  one  may  be  hm-t,  but  she  really  has 
no  excuse.  She  talked  quite  wild  as  she  came  to— 
I  mean  of  you  and  Arthur  Wynne— just  mere  babble. 
And,  O  Hugh  !  I  am  a  drivelling  old  maid,  and  have 
taught  you  all  manner  of  nonsense,  and  now  I  have 
got  you  into  trouble.  Don't  let  him  kill  you,  Hugh. 
Cannot  it  be  stopped?  I  told  Darthea  to  hold  her 
tongue,  and  I  am  so  miserable,  Hugh ;  and  when  I 
think  of  your  dead  mother,  and  all  I  promised,  what 
shall  I  do  ? "  And  the  kind  old  lady  penitently  wept 
over  me,  as  if  I  were  run  through  already. 

I  felt,  as  you  may  imagine,  the  embarrassment  and 
doubt  a  young  man  feels  when  about  to  protest  by 
a  single  act  against  the  creed  of  conduct  which  he 
has  been  taught  to  follow  since  he  could  remember. 
I  smiled,  too,  as  I  recalled  our  first  school  duel,  and 
how  Jack  and  I  ran  away. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      21  i 

My  aunt,  seeing  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
done,  ami  having  said  quite  enough,  retired,  I  am 
sure  to  pray  for  me,  and  for  herself  as  tlic  main  cause 
of  my  coming  risk.  She  would  have  liked  to  see  me 
Avell  out  of  the  affaii-,  but  I  do  believe  would  not  have 
had  me  excuse  myself  to  my  lieutenant,  let  what 
might  occur.  Indeed,  she  did  her  best  to  keep  Miss 
Darthea  from  betraving  what,  but  for  mv  aunt's  rash 
outburst,  would  not  have  gone  beyond  those  imme- 
diately concerned. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  found  Jack 
writing  in  his  fathers  house.  I  must  have  looked 
grave,  for  he  rose  quickly  and,  coming  to  meet  me, 
set  a  hand  on  each  of  my  shoulders— a  way  he  had, 
but  only  with  me. 

"  \Vliat  is  it  ?  "  he  said ;  "  not  the  news  ?  " 

"  No."  In  fact,  it  had  clean  gone  out  of  my  mind. 
"  I  have  had  trouble  with  Mr.  Woodville,  and  now 
I  must  fight  him."  And  on  this  I  related  the  whole 
adventure,  Jack  listening  intently. 

''Thou  shouldst  have  an  older  man  than  I,  Hugh. 
These  affairs  may  often  be  mended,  I  learn,  %\'itliout 
coming  to  violence."  lie  seemed  a  little  embarrassed, 
and  reddened,  hesitating  as  he  spoke,  so  that,  stupidly 
not  comprehending  him  as  I  should  have  done,  I  said 
hastily  that  the  man  had  insulted  my  aunt,  and  that 
there  was  })ut  one  way  out  of  it,  but  that  I  coidd 
tr}-  to  get  some  one  else,  if  to  act  as  my  friend  was 
not  to  his  taste. 

"  At  this  time,"  he  writes,  "  when  Hugh  came  so 
near  to  hurting  me,  I  was  really  going  through  in 


212      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

my  mind  what  lie  had  ah'eady  disposed  of  in  his.  At 
Pike's  we  heard  of  nothing  but  duels,  I  had  long 
been  Pike's  pupil.  The  duel  had  come  to  seem  to  us, 
I  fear,  the  natural  and  inevitable  ending  of  a  quar- 
rel. Such  was  the  belief  of  my  good  friend  Mistress 
WjTine's  set,  and  of  the  oificers  whose  opinions  as  to 
social  matters  we  had  learned  to  regard  as  final, 

"And  yet  the  absurdity  of  two  Quaker  lads  so 
trapped  struck  me  as  it  did  not  Hugh.  The  man 
must  surely  have  thought  him  older  than  he  was,  but 
so  did  most.  I  feared  that  I  shoidd  not  do  my  friend 
justice ;  and  then  I  thought  of  dear  Mistress  Gainor, 
whom  I  now  loved,  and  for  whom  to  lose  Hugh 
would  be  as  death  in  life ;  and  so,  quickly  turning  it 
over  for  one  mad  moment,  I  wondered  if  I  could 
not  someway  get  this  quarrel  on  to  my  own  shoul- 
ders. When  I  answered  Hugh  I  must  have  made  him 
misunderstand  me,  or  so  I  think  from  what  he  said. 
When  he  exclaimed  he  could  get  some  one  else,  I 
made  haste  to  put  myself  right.  We  had  little  time, 
however,  to  discuss  the  matter,  for  at  tliis  moment 
came  a  Captain  Le  Clere  with  Hugh's  note. 

"Hugh  was  now  in  one  of  his  quiet,  smiling 
moods,  when  from  his  face  you  would  have  said 
there  was  some  jest  or  wager  in  question,  and  from 
his  talk,  which  had  a  kind  of  intensity  of  distinct 
articulation,  that  it  was,  as  I  thought  it,  most  serious. 
He  was  coldly  civil  to  Mr.  Le  Clere,  aud  to  me  apart 
said,  'Small  swords,  and  the  governor's  woods  by 
the  spring,'  as  if  he  were  arranging  a  quite  familiar 
and  every-day  affair. 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker       2  i  3 

"  I  frankly  doolai-ed  that  I  was  new  to  an  office  of 
this  kind,  and  must  trust  to  Mr.  Le  Clere's  honour 
and  courtesy.  He  seemed  pleased  at  this,  and  thou<rlit 
a  pity  of  so  young  a  nuui  to  have  sueh  a  dillieulty, 
expressing  his  hoj)es  of  tu^conmiodation,  which  I 
knew  Hugh  too  well  to  think  possible. 

"  As  soon  as  we  had  arranged  tlie  needed  prelimi- 
naries, and  Mr.  Le  Clere  had  gone,  I  went  to  borrow 
small  swords  of  Pike,  arranging  to  come  for  them 
after  dark.  Duels  were  common  enough  even  in  our 
Quiiker  town,  especially  among  gentlemen  of  his 
Majesty's  service.  Although  illegjil,  so  strongly  was 
it  felt  that  for  certain  offences  there  was  no  otlier 
remedy  possible,  tliat  it  was  difficult  to  escape  the 
resort  to  weapons  if  those  involved  were  of  what  we 
who  are  of  it  like  to  call  the  better  class. 

"At  daybreak  Hugh  and  I  were  waiting  in  the 
woods  wlu're— near  to  what  Mr.  Penn  meant  as  a 
public  squai'C,  a  little  east  of  tSchuylkill-Eighth 
street— was  an  open  spaoe,  once  a  clearing,  but  now 
disused,  and  much  overgTO^\^^.  We  were  first  on  the 
ground,  and  I  took  occasion  to  tell  Hugh  of  Pike's 
counsels— for  he  had  at  once  guessed  what  wo  were 
about— to  watch  his  ojjponent's  eyes,  and  the  like. 
Hugh,  who  was  merry,  and  had  put  aside  such 
thoughts  of  the  future  as  were  ti'oubling  me,  de- 
clared that  it  was  the  mouth  a  man  should  watch, 
which  I  think  is  the  better  opinion.  I  said,  of  course, 
nothing  of  what  Pike  told  me  as  to  Mr.  "Woodville 
being  a  first-rate  player,  and  only  advised  my  friend 
to  be  cautious. 


214      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


"Mr.  "Woodville,  who  came  with  Le  Clere  and 
a  surgeon,  was  a  short  lump  of  a  man,  and  an 
odd  contrast  to  his  friend,  who  was  long  and  lank. 
The  pair  of  them  looked  like  Don  Quixote  and  his 
squire.  The  short  man  I  felt  quite  confident  Hugh 
could  handle,  and  was  sui-prised,  seeing  his  build, 
that  Pike  should  have  declared  him  a  good  blade. 
Mr.  Le  Clere  was  very  civil,  and  I  followed  his  di- 
rections, knowing,  as  I  have  said,  but  little  of  such 
affairs. 

"  Our  men  being  stripped  to  the  shirt,  and  ready, 
Mr.  Le  Clere  and  I  di-ew  away  some  twenty  feet. 
Then,  to  my  surprise,  the  lean  officer  said  to  me, 
'  Mr.  Warder,  shall  I  have  the  honour  to  amuse  you 
with  a  turn  ?  Here  are  our  own  swords  of  a  length, 
as  you  see.' 

"  I  was  anything  rather  than  amused.  I  had  heard 
of  this  foolish  Enghsh  custom  of  the  friends  also  en- 
gaging. I  knew  that  it  was  usual  to  make  the  offer, 
and  that  it  was  not  needful  to  accept ;  but  now,  as  I 
saw  my  Hugh  standing  ready  with  his  sword  upon 
the  ground,  I  began  to  shake  all  over,  and  to  colour. 
Such  hath  always  been  my  habit  when  in  danger, 
even  from  my  boyhood.  It  is  not  because  I  am 
afraid.  Yet,  as  it  seems  to  another  hke  fear,  to  feel 
it  sets  me  in  a  cold  rage,  and  has  many  times,  as  on 
this  occasion,  led  me  into  extremes  of  rashness. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Le  Clere  saw  my  condition,  and 
unhappily  let  loose  on  his  face  a  faint  smile.  'At 
your  service,'  I  said,  and  cast  off  my  coat. 

" '  It  is  not  necessary,  sir,'  he  rephed,  a  bit  ashamed 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      215 

to  engage  a  fellow  like  me,  who  shook  and  blushed, 
and  looked  to  be  about  seventeen. 

" '  We  are  losing  time,'  said  I,  m  a  fury,  not  over- 
soiTj'  to  be  thus  or  in  any  way  distracted  from  Hugh's 
peril.  In  truth,  I  need  have  had  snuill  fear  for  him. 
For  two  years  Hugh  and  I  had  feneed  almost  daily, 
and  what  with  Pike  and  Arthur  Wynne,  knew  most 
of  the  tricks  of  the  small  swurd, 

"The  next  moment  Le  Clere  cried,  'On  guard, 
gentlemen ! '  and  I  heard  the  click  of  the  blades 
as  thev  met.  I  had  mv  hands  full,  and  was  soon 
aware  of  Le  Clere's  skiU.  I  was,  however,  as  agile 
as  a  cat,  and  he  less  clever  with  his  legs  than  his 
arm.  Nor  do  I  think  he  desired  to  make  the  affair 
serious.  In  a  few  minutes— it  seemed  longer— I 
heard  an  oath,  and,  alarmed  for  Hugh,  cast  a  glance 
in  his  direction.  I  saw  his  foe  fall  1)ack,  his  sword 
flving  some  feet  awav.  ISlv  indiscretion  gave  mv 
man  his  chance.  His  blade  caught  in  my  rolled- 
up  sleeve,  bent,  and,  as  I  drove  my  own  through  his 
shoulder,  passed  clean  through  the  left  side  of  my 
neck.  With  a  gi-eat  jet  of  blood,  I  fell,  and  for  a 
little  knew  no  more." 

This  account  from  Jack's  journal  is  a  better  state- 
ment of  this  sad  business  than  T  could  have  set  do^^^l. 
I  saw  with  horror  Ja<'k  and  Le  Clere  salute,  and  then 
wa.s  too  full  of  business  to  see  more,  until  I  had  dis- 
armed Mr.  Woodville,  badly  wounding  his  sword- 
hand,  a  nire  accident.  And  here  was  my  Jack 
dead,  as  I  thought.  I  think  I  can  never  forget 
that  scene ;  Mr.  Le  Clere,  gaunt  and  thin,  lifting  his 


2 1 6      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


late  foe,  the  surgeon  kneeling  and  busy,  my  own 
man  hot  and  wrathful,  cursing  like  mad,  and  wrap- 
ping his  hand  about  with  a  handkerchief,  clearly  in 
pain,  and  I  waiting  for  the  word  of  death  or  life. 

At  last  the  doctor  said,  "It  is  bad— bad,  but  not 
fatal.  How  came  it,  Le  Clere  1  You  told  me  that 
neither  you   nor  Mr.  Woodville   meant  anything 


serious." 


I  was  kneeling  by  Jack,  and  was  not  intended  to 
hear  what  all  were  too  hot  and  excited  to  guard  by 
bated  breath. 

"  Damn  it,  doctor !  "  returned  Le  Clere.  "  It  is  no 
use  to  talk.  I  never  imagined  that  youngster  would 
take  me  at  my  word." 

"  You  will  be  in  hot  water  here,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  would  advise  you  to  get  away,  and  soon." 

"And  we  shall  supply  amusement  to  every  mess 
in  the  army,"  said  WoodviUe,  with  an  abundance  of 
bad  language.     "  Quakers  indeed !  " 

Jack's  eyes  opened,  and  he  said,  "Thou  art  not 
hurt,  Hugh?" 

"  No,  no !  "  I  answered,  and,  relieved  a  little,  turned 
to  Mr.  Le  Clere :  "  We  shall,  I  fear,  have  to  ask  thy 
chaise  of  thee.  We  came  afoot.  I  will  send  it  back 
at  once." 

Le  Clere  said,  "  Of  course ;  with  aU  my  heart." 

"  Thou  wilt  pardon  me,"  said  I,  "  if  I  advise  thee 
to  accept  the  doctor's  advice,  and  get  away  with  all 
speed.  I  should  be  sorry  if  thou  wert  arrested.  The 
feeling  against  gentlemen  of  thy  profession  is  un- 
happily strong  just  now." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      217 

Le  Clere  looked  me  over  with  a  quick  glance  of 
sometliiug  like  curiosity,  aud  said,  as  he  gave  his 
hand,  "You  are  a  gallaut  geutlemau,  Mr. Wynne. 
You  will  permit  au  older  mau  to  say  so.  I  tinist  we 
may  meet  agiiiu.  Are  all  Quakei's  as  clever  at  sword- 
play  ? " 

I  said  a  ciWl  word,  seeing  Jack  smile  as  he  lay 
with  my  bloody  coat  under  Ids  head.  Then,  as  I  re- 
membered tliat  perhaps  Mr.  WoodviOe  might  not  be 
satisfied,  I  went  up  to  him  and  said,  ''  I  am  at  thy 
service,  sir,  if  thou  art  not  contented  to  let  us  be  quit 
of  this  matter." 

"It  must  needs  rest  now,"  he  replied  "Damn 
your  tricks ! '' 

"Sir!  "said  I. 

"  Holloa !  "  says  Le  Clere ;  "  this  won't  do.  Keep 
your  temper.  This  way,  Mr.  Wynne."  And  he  drew 
me  aside. 

It  was  fidl  time ;  I  was  beginning  to  get  my  blood 
up,  and  was  in  a  rage. 

"  This  comes,"  he  said,  "  of  going  out  with  a  fellow 
that  has  risen  from  the  ranks.  Why  do  your  ladies 
receive  evf^ry  one  who  wears  a  red  coat?  Let  me 
help  you  with  your  friend.  I  am  most  sorr}'.  For 
my  .share,  I  have  a  neat  reminder  in  the  shoulder. 
Mr.  Warder  has  the  yrnai  of  a  blacksmith"— which 
was  true,  and  for  good  reason. 

There  is  no  need  to  tell  of  the  wratli  and  incapacity 
of  poor  Ja(^k's  father.  I  got  away  as  soon  as  Dr. 
Rush  arrived,  and,  promising  to  return  in  an  hour, 
went  off  with  a  smile  from  my  Jack,  and  a  "Thank 


2 1  8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

God !  Hugh,  that  it  was  not  thou  who  had  the  worst 
of  it." 

It  was  about  seven  as  I  knocked  at  my  aunt's 
door,  and,  passing  the  black  page,  ran  upstaii's. 
My  aunt  was  in  the  breakfast-room;  she  came  to 
meet  me  in  a  morning  gown,  and  to  my  astonishment 
was  very  tranquil,  but  with  eyes  that  looked  anxious, 
and  far  more  red  than  common. 

"  Sit  down,  sir.  I  want  to  hear  about  this  ridicu- 
lous business." 

"  It  may  seem  so  to  thee,"  said  I ;  "  I  am  glad  if  it 
amuses  thee." 

"Stuff!  Talk  decent  English,  man.  That  was 
like  your  father.     Is — are  you — is  any  one  hurt!" 

I  said  that  was  what  we  went  for,  and  so  told  her 
the  whole  sorry  business. 

"  And  it  was  for  me,  sir !  "  she  cried ;  "  for  me ! 
And  my  dear  brave  girl-boy !     Is  it  dangerous  ? " 

I  hoped  not.  We  had  both  left  our  marks  on  the 
Enghsh  officers.  That  she  liked.  Then  she  was  silent 
awhile. 

"  Here  is  come  a  note  from  the  kitten.  "Will  you 
have  it  ?  It  may  be  aU  you  will  ever  get  of  her.  She 
says  she  has  held  her  tongue ;  I  can't— I  don't  believe 
her— and  asks  me  to  let  her  know  if  any  are  hurt. 
I  will.  Does  she  suppose  gentlemen  go  out  just  to 
look  at  one  another  ?     Ridiculous  !  " 

I  spoke  at  last  of  my  father;  of  how  he  would 
take  this  matter,  of  his  increasing  acerbity,  and  of 
my  own  unhappy  life,  where  I  found  nothing  to  re- 
place my  mother's  love.     My  last  disaster  and  poor 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      219 

Jack's  wound  seemed  like  enough  to  widen  the  gap 
between  me  and  my  parent,  and  my  Aunt  Gaiuor 
was  troubled. 

'■  You  mu.st  be  tii-st  to  tell  him,"  said  mv  aunt.  "  I 
think  he  will  say  but  little.  He  has  giveu  you  up 
as  a  sheep  lost  in  the  darkness  of  iniquity,  and  too 
black  to  be  found  easily." 

I  begged  her  not  to  jest.  I  was  sore  and  sick  at 
heart. 

'•Eat  your  breakfast,"  she  said,  "  and  get  it  over 
with  your  father." 

I  hurried  through  the  meal,  and  went  upstairs, 
to  find  my  sleeve  full  of  blood,  although  no  harm 
had  been  done  but  what  was  easily  set  right  by  what 
Dr.  Rush  called  a  bit  of  diachylon  plaster.  (I  think 
I  spell  it  correctly.) 

As  I  went  by  Darthea's  home  I  cast  a  glance  up 
at  the  open  \\'indow,  and  saw  my  lady  looking  out. 
She  was  pale,  and  as  she  called  to  me  I  could  not 
})ut  go  in,  for,  indeed,  she  ran  hei-self  to  open  the 
door. 

"  Come  in  !  Oh,  just  a  moment !  "  .she  cried.  "  Your 
aunt  has  written  me  a  note,  and  it  tells  me  ahuost 
nothing—  nothing." 

I  was  in  no  very  kindly  humour  with  MissDarthca, 
Since  our  talk  about  my  cousin  she  had  been  very 
high  and  mighty,  and  would  have  little  to  say  to  me 
except  unpleasant  things  about  the  angry  politics  of 
the  day.  I  .'^aid  I  was  glad  to  have  heard  she  had 
told  no  one  of  what  my  aunt's  rash  speech  had  let 
slip.   I  had  better  have  htld  my  own  tongue.  Darthea 


220      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

was  in  another  mood  to-day,  and  all  at  once  became 
quiet  and  dignified. 

"  I  gave  my  word,  Mr.  Wynne.  When  you  know 
me  better  you  will  learn  that  I  can  keep  it.  Is— is 
Mr.  Warder  much  hurt  f  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  he  is  in  great  peril."  I  saw  how 
anxious  she  was,  and  was  vexed  enough  to  want  to 
hurt  her. 

"  Oh,  you  men !  you  men !  "  she  cried.  "  Will  he 
die,  do  you  think  ?  Poor  boy !  "  She  sat  down  and 
began  to  cry.  "  He  must  not  die ;  why  did  you  lead 
him  into  such  wicked  trouble  ? " 

It  was  vain  to  explain  how  little  I  had  to  do  with 
the  matter.  Did  she  love  Jack?  I  little  knew  in 
those  days  how  tender  was  this  gentle  heart,  how  it 
went  out,  tendril-like,  seeking  it  knew  not  what,  and 
was  for  this  reason  ever  liable  to  say  too  much,  and 
to  give  rise  to  misapprehension. 

"  O  Darthea !  "  I  cried.  "  Dost  thou  love  my  Jack  ? 
I  shall  be  the  last  to  come  in  his  way.  I  have  said 
I  love  thee  myself,  and  I  can  never  change.  But 
how  can  it  be  1  how  can  it  be  ?  And  my  cousin  ?  O 
Darthea ! " 

"  I  love  no  one,  sir.  I  love  everybody.  I— I  think 
you  are  impertinent,  Mr.  Wynne.  Is  it  your  business 
whom  I  love  ?  My  God !  there  is  blood  on  your  hand ! 
Are  you  hurt  ? " 

It  was  true ;  a  little  blood  was  trickling  down  my 
wrist.  She  was  all  tenderness  again.  I  must  not  go ; 
here  was  her  handkerchief;  and  so  on— till  I  longed 
to  take  her  in  my  arms,  she  made  me  so  sorry  for  her 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      221 


I  said  it  "wns  of  no  moment,  and  I  must  go. 

"You will  come  soon  apiin,  and  tell  me  about  Jack." 

I  went  away,  not  wondering  that  all  the  world 
should   love  her. 

I  hastened  to  Jack's  home,  and  there  found  Dr. 
Rusli  and  Dr.  Glentworth,  who  wjis  later  to  be  the 
physician  of  Mr.  Washington.  My  aunt,  preceding 
me,  had  taken  possession.  Mr.  Warder  was  re- 
duced to  a  condition  of  abject  obedience,  and  for  a 
month  and  more  my  aunt  hardly  left  her  girl-boy's 
pillow.  Indeed,  it  was  long  before  I  was  let  to  see 
him,  and  then  he  was  but  a  spectre  of  himself,  with 
not  enough  blood  to  blush  with.  Our  officers  very 
promptly  left  for  New  York  tlie  day  after  our  fight, 
and  we  heard  no  more  of  tliem. 

It  would  have  been  of  little  use  to  tell  this  long 
story  but  for  the  consequences  to  me  and  to  others. 
I  should  have  done  well  to  see  my  father  at  once ; 
but  I  could  not  get  away,  and  sat  till  noon,  asking 
every  now  and  then  what  I  could  do,  and  if  Jack 
were  better,  despite  the  fact  that  I  was  told  he  was 
doing  well. 

Mr.  Warder  was  one  of  those  people  who,  once  a 
crisis  seems  over,  must  still  be  doing  something,  and 
to  be  rid  of  him  he  was  sent  by  my  aunt  to  get 
certain  articles  the  doctors  did  or  did  not  need. 
It  seemed  wise  to  this  gentleman,  hanng  completed 
his  errands,  to  pay  a  visit  of  condolence  to  my  father, 
and  thus  it  was  that  greater  mischief  was  made. 

About  two  I  got  away,  and  set  forth  to  see  my  par- 
ent    Alremly  the  news  was  out,  and  I  was  stopped 


222      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

over  and  over  to  explain  what  had  happened.  It  was 
the  hour  of  dinner;  for  Friends  dined  at  two,  but 
my  aunt  and  the  gayer  set  at  four. 

My  father  tiu'ned  from  his  meal,  and  coldly  looked 
me  all  over, — my  arm  was  in  a  sling,  on  which  Dr. 
Rush  had  insisted,— and  last  into  my  eyes.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  thou  art  come  at  last.  Fortunately,  Friend 
Warder  has  been  here,  and  I  know  thy  story  and  the 
mischief  into  which  thou  hast  led  his  poor  lad.  It  is 
time  we  had  a  settlement,  thou  and  I.  Hast  thou  fear 
neither  of  God  nor  of  man  ?  A  rebellious  son,  and 
a  defier  of  authority !  It  is  well  thy  mother  is  dead 
before  she  saw  thee  come  to  this  iniin  of  soul  and 
body." 

"My  God  !  father,"  I  cried;  "how  canst  thou 
hui't  me  thus !  I  am  in  sorrow  for  Jack,  and  want 
help.  To  whom  should  I  go  but  to  thee  ?  O  mother, 
mother ! "  I  looked  around  at  the  bare  walls,  and 
down  at  the  sanded  floor,  and  could  only  bury  my 
face  in  my  hands  and  weep  like  a  baby.  What  with 
all  the  day  had  brought,  and  Darthea  and  Jack,  and 
now  this  stern  old  man  silent,  impassive,  unmoved 
by  what  was  shaking  me  like  a  storm,— although  I 
loved  Mm  still  for  all  his  hardness, — I  had  no  refuge 
but  in  tears. 

He  rose,  and  I  sat  still,  thinking  what  I  should  say. 
"  When  thou  art  ready  to  turn  from  thy  sin  and  ask 
pardon  of  God  and  of  me,  who  am  brought  to  shame 
on  thy  account,  I  will  talk  with  thee." 

Upon  this  I  set  myseK  between  him  and  the  door. 
"  We  cannot  part  this  way.     It  is  too  terrible." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      223 

"  That  was  a  matter  thou  hadst  been  wise  to  con- 
sider long  ago,  Hugh." 

''  Xo  !  "  I  cried.  I  was  as  resolved  as  he.  "  I  must 
be  heard.  How  have  I  offended  ?  Have  I  neglected 
thy  business?  who  can  say  so?  I  was  insulted  in 
Meeting,  and  I  went  where  men  do  not  trample  on 
a  penitent  boy,  and  if  I  have  gone  the  way  of  my 
aunt's  world,  is  it  my  fault  or  thine  ?  I  have  gone 
away  from  what,  in  thy  opinion,  is  right  as  regai'ds 
questions  in  which  the  best  and  purest  side  with  me. 
Am  I  a  child,  that  I  may  not  use  my  own  judgment  ?  " 
It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  had  plainly 
asserted  my  freedom  to  think  and  to  act. 

To  my  sui'prise,  he  stood  a  moment  in  silence, 
looking  down,  I  as  quiet,  regarding  him  with  eager 
and  attentive  eyes.  Then  he  said,  seeking  my  gaze, 
''  I  am  to  bhinie ;  I  have  too  nnicli  considei-ed  thy 
chances  of  worldly  gain.  I  know  not  whence  thou 
hast  thy  wilfulness."  As  I  looked  in  the  face  of  this 
strong,  rock-like  man,  I  wondered ;  for  he  went  on, 
"Not  from  me,  Hugh,  not  from  me—" 

"Stop!"  I  said.  "Thou  hast  said  enough."  I 
feared  lest  again  he  should  re])roach  lier  of  whose 
sweetness  I  had  naught  but  a  gift  of  the  blue  eyes 
that  must  have  met  his  with  menace.  I  saw,  as  his 
hands  shook,  tapjiing  the  floor  with  his  cane,  how 
great  were  both  his  anger  and  his  self-control. 

'•  It  were  well,  my  son,  that  this  ended.  I  hope 
thou  wilt  see  thy  way  to  better  courses.  Thy  cousin 
was  right.  He,  too,  is  a  man  not  of  my  world,  but 
he  .suw  more  clearly  than  I  wht'ic  (liou  wert  going." 


224      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  "  and  thou  canst  think  this  ? 
Thou  hast  believed  and  trusted  Ai-thur  Wynne! 
What  did  he  say  of  me?" 

"  I  will  not  be  questioned." 

"The  man  lied  to  thee,"  I  cried,— "why,  I  do  not 
know,— and  to  others  also.  Why  did  he  deceive  us 
as  to  Wyncote  ?  What  reason  had  he  ?  As  he  hed 
about  that,  so  does  he  seem  to  have  lied  about  me. 
By  heaven !  he  shall  answer  me  some  day." 

"I  will  hear  no  profanity  in  my  house.  Stand 
aside !  Dost  thou  not  hear  me  ?  Am  I  to  be  dis- 
obeyed in  my  own  house  ?  " 

I  but  half  took  in  his  meaning,  and  stood  still. 
The  next  moment  he  seized  me  by  the  lapels  of  my 
coat,  and,  spinning  me  round  like  a  child,  pushed  me 
from  him.  I  fell  into  the  great  Penn  chair  he  had 
turned  from  the  table  when  he  rose.  He  threw  open 
the  door,  and  I  saw  him  walk  quickly  down  the  hall 
and  out  into  the  orchard  garden. 

For  a  week  he  did  no  more  than  speak  to  me  a 
word  when  business  made  it  needful,  and  then  the 
monotonous  days  went  on  as  before  in  the  gray, 
dismal  home,  out  of  which  the  light  of  life's  gladness 
departed  when  those  dear  mother-eyes  were  closed 
in  death. 


XIY 


IIILE,  throughout  that  sad  summer,  mv 
Jack  was  slowly  coming:  back  to  health, 
even  the  vast  events  of  the  war  now 
under  way  moved  me  but  little.  My  Aunt 
Uainor  would  think  of  no  one  but  her 
young:  Quaker.  Her  house  was  no  longer  gay,  nor 
would  she  go  to  the  country,  until  Mr.  Warder  agi-eed 
that  she  should  take  Jack  with  us  to  the  Hill  Farm- 
house, where,  in  the  wanu  mouths,  she  moved  among 
her  cattle,  and  fed  the  hens,  and  helped  and  buUied 
every  poor  house^vife  far  and  near. 

In  a  bright-tinted  hammock  I  fetched  from  Ma- 
deira, Ja^k  used  to  lie  under  the  apple-trees  that 
June  and  July,  with  my  aunt  for  company;  better 
could  hardly  have  been.  ^Mien  I  came  from  town 
in  June,  with  news  of  what  the  farmers  and  their 
long  rifles  had  done  at  Bunker  Hill,  it  was  a  little 
too  much  for  Jack's  strength,  and  he  burst  into  tears. 
But  Dr.  Rusli  declared  that  self-control  was  an  affair 
of  physical  health,  and  that  he  who  had  too  little 
blood— and  Jack  was  lily-white— could  be  neither 
courageous,  nor  able  to  contain  his  emotions.  I  sup- 
pose it  may  be  true. 

I  went  in  and  out  of  town  daily,  my  father  being 

22^ 


u 


226      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

unwilling  to  go  to  Merion.  At  times  I  met  James 
Wilson,  who  was  steadily  urging  me  to  enter  the 
army.  Wetherill  had  scarce  any  other  words  for  me. 
But  my  father,  Jack's  condition,  and  my  aunt's  de- 
pending on  me,  all  stood  in  my  way,  and  I  did  "but 
content  myself  with  an  houi''s  daily  drill  in  town 
with  others,  who  were  thus  preparing  themselves 
for  active  service. 

We  were  taught,  and  well  too,  by  an  Irish  ser- 
geant— I  fear  a  deserter  from  one  of  his  Majesty's  reg- 
iments. As  Jack  got  better,  he  was  eager  to  have 
me  put  him  through  his  facings,  but  before  he  was 
fit  the  summer  was  nigh  over. 

It  had  been  a  time  of  great  anxiety  to  all  men. 
The  Virginia  colonel  was  commander-in-chief;  a 
motley  army  held  Sir  William  Howe  penned  up  in 
Boston,  and  why  he  so  quietly  accepted  this  sheep- 
like fate  no  man  of  us  could  comprehend.  My  aunt, 
a  great  letter-writer,  had  many  correspondents,  and 
one  or  two  in  the  camp  at  Cambridge. 

"  My  Vu'ginia  fox-hunter,"  said  my  aunt,  "  is  hav- 
ing evil  days  with  the  New  England  farmers.  He  is 
disposed  to  be  despotic,  says — well,  no  matter  who. 
He  likes  the  whipping-post  too  well,  and  thinks  all 
should,  like  himself,  serve  without  pay.  A  slow  man 
it  is,  but  intelligent,"  says  my  Aunt  Gainor ;  "  sure 
to  get  himself  right,  and  patient  too.  You  will  see, 
Hugh;  he  will  come  slowly  to  understand  these 
people." 

I  smiled  at  the  good  lady's  confidence,  and  yet  she 
was  right.    They  took  him  ill  at  first  in  that  undis- 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker      227 

ciplined  camp,  and  queer  things  were  said  of  him. 
Like  the  rest,  he  was  learning  the  business  of  war, 
and  was  to  commit  many  hhindors  and  get  sharp 
lessons  in  this  school  of  the  soldier. 

These  were  everywhere  uneasy  times.  Daj'  after 
day  we  heard  of  this  one  or  that  one  gone  to  swell 
the  ever-changing  number  of  those  who  beset  Sir 
Wilham.  (.ioudolas— most  unlike  gondolas  they 
were— were  being  built  in  haste  for  oui'  own  river 
defence.  Committees,  going  from  hoiLse  to  house, 
collected  arms,  tent-stuffs,  kettles,  blankets,  and  Avhat 
not,  for  our  troops.  There  were  noisy  elections,  arrests 
of  Tories ;  and  in  October  the  death  of  Pejlon  Ran- 
dolph, ex-president  of  the  Congress,  and  the  news 
of  the  coming  of  the  Hessian  hirelings.  It  was  a 
season  of  stir,  angry  discussion,  and  stern  waiting 
for  what  was  to  come ;  but  through  it  all  my  Jack 
prospered  migbtih'  in  health,  so  that  by  September 
20  he  was  fit  to  leave  us. 

I  still  think  pleasjintly  of  all  the  pretty  pictures  of 
pale,  fair-haired  Jack  in  the  hammock,  with  Darthea 
reading  to  him,  and  the  Wliig  ladies  with  roses  from 
their  gardens,  and  peaches  and  what  not,  all  for  Jack, 
the  hero,  I  being  that  summer  but  a  small  and  alto- 
gether unimportant  personage. 

When  my  Jack  went  home  again,  we  began  at 
once  to  talk  over  our  plans  for  joining  ^Ir.  Wash- 
ington ;  I  nuide  sure  that  now  there  was  no  greater 
obstacle  in  my  way  than  my  father's  opinions. 
Alas!  in  NovemV)er  my  aunt  took  wliat  Dr.  Rush 
called  a  pernicious  ague,  and,  although  bled  many 


228      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

times  and  fed  on  Jesuits'  bark,  she  came  near  to  dy- 
ing. In  January  she  was  better,  but  was  become  like 
a  child,  and  depended  upon  me  for  everything.  If  I 
but  spoke  of  my  desire  to  be  in  the  field,  she  would 
fall  to  tears  or  declare  me  ungrateful.  She  was 
morally  weakened  by  her  disease,  and  did  seem  to  have 
changed  as  to  her  character.  I  lamented  to  Jack 
that  it  was  my  fate  to  stay,  and  he  must  go  alone  : 
I  would  follow  when  I  could. 

It  was  far  into  April  before  my  aunt  was  entirely 
her  old  self,  but  as  early  as  the  close  of  January  she 
had  decided  that  she  was  weU,  and  that  to  be  weU 
you  must  get  rid  of  doctors.  She  told  the  great 
physician  as  much,  and  he  left  her  in  vast  disgust. 
Society  she  would  now  have  had  for  remedial  dis- 
traction, but  the  war  had  made  of  it  a  dismal  wreck. 
The  Tories  had  been  warned  or  sent  away;  the 
moderates  hardly  fared  better ;  and  the  old  gay  set 
was  broken  up.  Nevertheless  it  was  not  until  far 
later,  in  July,  77,  that  Mr.  Chew,  Mr.  Penn,  and 
other  as  important  neutrals,  were  ordered  to  leave 
the  city ;  until  then  some  remnants  of  the  governor's 
set  kept  up  more  or  less  of  the  pleasant  life  they  had 
once  led.  But  there  were  no  more  redcoats  in  their 
drawing-rooms,  and  our  antagonists  were  of  the  last 
who  had  lingered.  Even  before  their  departure,  any 
gentleman  of  the  king's  service  was  sure  to  be  told 
to  leave,  and  meanwhile  was  apt  to  find  a  militiaman 
at  his  door. 

My  aunt  would  have  none  of  them  that  winter, 
and  her  old  Tory  friends  ceased  to  be  seen  at  her 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      229 

house,  save  only  Darthca,  whilst  continental  uniforms 
and  gentlemen  of  the  Congress  were  made  warmly 
welcome ;  but  alas !  among  these  was  no  match  for 
her  at  piquet,  and  she  felt  that  no  one  had  sacrificed 
more  for  the  countiy  than  had  slie. 

In  Februaiy  of  '76  a  double  change  took  place 
among  us,  and  to  my  great  discontent.  I  had  seen 
much  of  Darthea  in  the  fall  and  early  winter  of  '75, 
and  had  come  to  know  her  l>ettcr.  Slie  was  fond  of 
riding  witli  my  aunt,  who  had  a  strong  gi'ay  stallion 
full  of  tricks,  but  no  nuister  of  the  hardy  old  lad)*, 
whom  neither  horse  nor  man  ever  dismayed.  The 
good  spinster  was  by  no  means  as  vigorous  as  I 
could  have  wished,  but  ride  she  would  on  all  clear 
days  whether  cold  or  not,  and  liked  well  to  have 
Darthea  with  us.  "VMien  ill  she  was  a  docile  patient, 
l)ut,  once  afoot,  declared  all  doctr)rs  fools,  and  would 
have  no  more  of  them  "  and  tlieir  filthy  doses." 

We  rode  of  sunlit  winter  days  out  to  Germantown, 
or  upon  the  wood  roads  over  Schuylkill,  my  Aunt 
Gainor  from  good  nature  being  pleased  to  gallop 
ahead,  and  leave  us  to  chat  and  follow,  or  not,  as 
might  suit  us. 

One  fine  crisp  morning  in  Februarj"  we  were 
liroasting  at  a  walk  the  slipperv  incline  of  Chestnut 
Hill,  wlicn  Darthea,  wlio  liad  been  unusually  silent, 
said  (juitc  abruptly : 

"  I  am  going  away,  Mr.  Wynne." 

I  was  in.stantly  troubled.     "Where?"  I  said. 

"Next  week,  and  to  New  York.  My  aunt  can 
no  longer  stand  all  this  mob  of  rebels.     We  go  to 


230      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

New  York,  and  for  how  long  I  know  not.  Since, 
in  September,  our  friend,  Dr.  Jolm  Kearsley,  '*vas 
mobbed  and  maltreated,  my  aunt  declares  you  unfit 
to  live  among.  I  must  say  I  thought  it  brutal,  sir. 
When  men  of  sense  and  breeding  like  Mr.  Penn, 
Mr.  Chew,  and  Dr.  Kearsley,  cannot  live  unmolested 
it  is  time,  my  aunt  thinks,  to  run." 

"  No  one  annoys  Mr.  Penn  or  Mr.  Chew,"  said  I. 
"To  my  mind,  they  are  neutrals,  and  worse  than 
open  foes;  but  thy  doctor  is  a  mad  Tory,  and  a 
malignant  talker.  I  saw  the  matter,  and  I  assure 
thee  it  was  overstated.  He  lost  his  temper;  't  is 
a  brave  gentleman,  and  I  would  he  were  with  us. 
But  now  that  both  sides  are  sure  at  last  that  they 
are  really  at  war,  these  men  who  live  among  us  and 
are  ready  to  welcome  every  redcoat  must  have  their 
lesson.     It  must  be  Yes  or  No,  in  a  war  like  this." 

"  But  I  hate  that,"  she  returned ;  "  and  to  be  com- 
fortable and  snug,  and  to  love  ease  and  Madeira  and 
a  quiet  horse,  and  a  book  and  a  pipe  and  a  nap  of 
an  afternoon,  and  then  to  have  certain  of  the  baser 
sort  ciy,  '  Get  up  and  kill  somebody ! '  I  think  I  am 
with  Mr.  Ross,  and  believe  that, '  let  who  wUl  be  king, 
I  well  know  I  shall  be  subject.'  Imagine  my  Aunt 
Peniston's  fat  poodle  invited  to  choose  between  exile 
and  killing  rats." 

"  My  dear  Darthea,  for  thee  to  preach  caution  and 
neutrality  is  delightful." 

"  Did  it  sound  like  that  Mr.  Congregation  ? " 

«No ;  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think  it  did  not." 

^'  Indeed,  you  are  right,"  says  she.     "  I  am  a  red- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      231 

hot  Ton-,  sir.  I  scare  Margaret  Chew  out  of  her 
sweet  wits  when  I  talk  blood,  blood,  sir;  and  as  to 
Miss  Franks,— she  hates  to  be  called  Becky,— when  I 
say  I  hope  to  see  Mr.  Washington  hanged,  she  vows 
he  is  too  fine  a  man,  and  she  would  only  hang  the 
ugly  ones.  So  take  care,  Mr.  IStay-at-home,  take 
care ;  I  am  no  neutral." 

"  Thank  thee/'  I  said,  lifting  my  hat.  "  I  like  open 
enemies  best." 

''  Oh,  I  will  say  a  good  word  for  you,  when  it  comes 
to  that,  and  you  will  need  it.  Sh*  Guy  will  have 
Ticonderoga  soon,  and  Mr.  Howe  New  York ;  so  that, 
with  my  loyal  cousins  and  the  king  in  possession, 
we  shall  at  least  be  in  civilised  society.'" 

"There  is  a  well-worn  proverb,"  said  I,  "about 
counting  chickens.  "Where  shalt  thou  be  in  New 
York?" 

"  Cousin  De  Lancey  has  asked  us  to  stay  with  them. 
"VMien  the  king's  troops  return  to  your  rebel  town 
we  shall  come  back,  I  suppose." 

"  I  am  Sony,"  I  said.  "All  my  friends  are  flitting 
like  swallows.  Poor  Mr.  Franks  is  to  go,  it  seems, 
and  the  gay  Miss  Rebecca ;  but  she  likes  the  redcoats 
best,  and  another  is  of  the  same  mind,  I  fear." 

"  I  am  not  over-grieved  to  go  myself,''  said  Darthea, 
"  and  we  will  not  quarrel  just  now  about  the  redcoats. 
Have  you  seen  Mr.  Warder  to-day  ? " 

"  I  have  not." 

"Then  I  am  the  bearer  of  ill  news.  He  is  to  join 
your  new  general  in  a  week  or  two.  He  could  not 
find  you  this  morning.     I  think  he  was  relieved  to 


232      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

*  ■— II   II  I  I  ■  ■■  ■^^■^M.^— —  ■■    I  .1— I.  ■■■■■— ^—a^ii—^—^ 

know  I  should  tell  you.  How  mueh  lie  cares  for  you ! 
It  is  not  like  a  man  friendskip.  It  is  like  tke  way 
we  weak  girls  care  for  one  another.  How  can  he 
be  such  a  brave  gentleman  as  he  seems— as  he  must 
be?  I  should  have  thought  it  would  be  you  who 
would  have  gone  first.  Why  do  you  not  go  ?  Here 
is  Miss  Wynne's  pet  girl-boy  away  to  fight,  and  you 
—why  do  not  you  go  ? " 

I  was  puzzled,  as  well  I  might  be.  "Dost  thou 
want  me  to  go  ? " 

A  quick  light  came  into  those  brown  eyes,  and  a 
httle  flush  to  the  cheeks  as  she  said,— oh,  so  very 
quickly,— "I  want  all  my  friends  to  do  what  seems 
to  them  right." 

"  I  am  glad  to  answer,"  I  said.  "  It  seems  to  me 
my  duty  to  be  with  the  army ;  my  friends  have  gone, 
and  now  Graydon,  the  last  to  leave,  has  also  gone. 
I  fancy  people  snnling  to  see  me  still  at  home— I 
who  am  so  positive,  so  outspoken.  But  here  is  my 
father,  with  whom  if  I  go  I  break  for  life,  and  here 
is  my  Aunt  Gainor,  who  bursts  into  tears  if  I  do  but 
mention  my  wish  to  leave  her." 

"  I  see,"  said  Darthea,  not  looking  at  me ;  "  now  I 
understand  fuUy,  I  did  not  before.  But— will  you 
think  it  strange  if— if  I  say— I,  a  good  and  loyal 
woman— that  you  should  go,  and  soon  ?  "  Then  there 
was  a  long  pause,  and  she  added,  "When  will  this 
cruel  war  end  ? " 

"  God  knows,"  said  I.  "  Thank  thee ;  thou  art  right, 
Darthea." 

Another  pause  as  long  came  after,  when  she  said 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       233 

abruptly,  and  in  quite  another  voice,  "You  do  not 
like  Mr.  ^Vi-thur  Wvuue ;  why  do  you  not  ? " 

I  was  startled.  One  never  knew  when  she  would 
get  under  one's  ^Miard  and  ]nit  some  prickly  question. 

'•  Dost  thou  think  I  have  reason  to  like  liini  ? "  I 
said.  ''  I  did  like  him  once,  but  now  I  do  not ;  nor 
does  he  love  me  any  better.  Why  dost  thou  ask 
me?" 

"Oh,  for— no  matter'  I  am  not  going  to  say 
why." 

"I  think  thou  knowest,  Darthea,  that  he  is  no 
friend  of  mine." 

**  Let  us  join  your  aunt,"  she  said  gravely. 

"  One  word  more,"  said  I,  "  and  I  shall  trouble  thee 
no  further.  Rest  sure  that,  come  what  may,  there 
is  one  man  who  loves  thee  with  a  love  no  man  can 
better." 

"  I  wish  you  had  not  said  that.  There  are  some, 
Mr.  Wynne,  who  never  know  when  to  take  No  for 
an  answer." 

"  I  am  one,"  said  I. 

To  this  she  made  no  reply,  and  rode  on  looking 
ahead  in  a  dreamy  way  that  fetched  back  to  my 
memory  a  prettiness  my  dear  mother  had.  Pres- 
ently turning,  she  said : 

"Let  it  end  here;  and— and  my  name  is  Miss 
Peniston,  please." 

There  was  no  pettishness  in  her  voice — only  a 
certain  dignity  which  sits  better  on  little  women 
than  on  little  men,  and  ]»rovokes  no  smile.  She  was 
looking  at  me  with  a  curious  steadiness  of  gaze  as 


2  34      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

she  spoke.  It  was  my  last  chance  for  many  a  day, 
and  I  could  not  let  her  go  with  a  mere  bow  of  meek 
submission. 

"  If  I  have  been  rude  or  discourteous,  I  am  more 
sorry  than  I  can  say.  If  I  called  thee  Darthea,  it 
was  because  hope  seemed  to  bring  us  nearer  for  one 
dear  moment.  Ah !  I  may  call  thee  Miss  Peniston, 
but  for  me  always  thou  wilt  be  Darthea ;  and  I  shall 
love  Darthea  to  the  end,  even  when  Miss  Peniston 
has  come  to  be  a  distant  dream  and  has  another 
name.  I  am  most  sorry  to  have  given  thee  annoy- 
ance.    Forget  that,  and  pardon  me." 

"  Mr.  Wynne,  you  are  a  kindly  and  courteous  gen- 
tleman. I  wish— and  you  must  not  misapprehend 
me— that  I  loved  you.  Oh,  I  do  not.  Youi*  aunt, 
who  is  so  good  to  me,  is  a  fierce  wooer.  I  am  afraid 
of  her,  and— she  must  be  miles  away;  let  us  join 
her."  And  with  this  she  shook  her  bridle,  and  was 
off  at  speed,  and  my  mare  and  I  at  her  side. 

If  I  have  made  those  who  loved  Darthea  Peniston 
and  me  understand  this  winning  soul,  I  shall  be 
glad ;  and  if  not  I  shall  at  least  have  had  the  plea- 
sure of  repeating  words  and  describing  actions  which 
live  in  my  remembrance  with  such  exactness  as  does 
not  apply  to  much  of  what,  to  the  outer  world,  may 
seem  far  better  entitled  to  be  remembered.  She  had 
it  in  her  to  hurt  you,  help  you,  pity  you,  mock  or 
amuse  you,  and  back  of  it  all  was  the  honesty  and 
truth  of  a  womanhood  capable  of  courageous  conduct, 
and  despising  all  forms  of  meanness.  That  she  was 
variously  regarded  was  natural.     Margaret  Shippen 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      235 

said  she  cared  only  for  dress  and  the  men ,  and  the 
witty  Miss  Franks,  seeing  further,  but  not  all,  said 
that  Darthea  Peniston  was  an  actress  of  the  minute, 
who  believed  her  every  role  to  be  real.  My  wise 
aunt  declared  that  she  was  several  women,  and  that 
she  did  not  always  keep  some  of  them  in  order.  It 
was  clear,  to  me  at  least,  that  she  was  growing  older 
in  mind,  and  was  begiuuing  to  keep  stricter  school 
for  those  other  women  with  whom  my  aunt  credited 
this  perplexing  little  lady. 

Before  I  quit€  leave  her  for  a  time,  I  must  let 
Jack  say  a  word.  It  will  tell  more  than  I  then  knew 
or  could  know,  and  \n\\  save  me  from  saying  that 
which  were  better  said  by  auotlier. 

"  At  last  there  is  certainty  of  a  long  war,  and  I, 
being  well  again,  must  take  my  side.  It  is  fortunate 
when  choice  is  so  easy,  for  I  find  it  often  hard  in  life 
to  know  just  what  is  right.  Poor  Hugh,  who  has 
gone  further  than  I  from  our  fathers'  faith,  ^\^U  still 
declare  he  is  of  Friends ;  but  he  commonly  drops  our 
language  if  he  is  not  excited  or  gi'catly  interested, 
and  the  rest  ■will  go  too.  It  is  strange  that  his  reso- 
luteness and  clear  notions  of  duty  have  so  helped 
me,  and  yet  that  he  is  so  caught  and  tied  fast  by 
Miss  Gainor's  dependence  upon  him,  and  by  his 
scruples  as  to  his  father.  He  cannot  do  the  thing 
he  would-  Now  that  my  own  father  has  sold  out  his 
business,  I  at  least  am  left  without  excuse.  I  sliall 
go  at  once,  for  fear  I  shall  chango  my  mind."  A 
more  unlikely  thing  I  cannot  imagine  to  have  hap- 
pened to  John  Warder. 


236      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  I  saw  Darthea  to-day,"  he  goes  on  to  write.  "  She 
is  going  to  New  York.  She  talked  to  me  with  such 
frankness  as  almost  broke  my  heart.  She  does  not 
know  how  dear  she  is  to  me.  I  was  near  to  teUing 
her;  but  if  she  said  No, — and  she  would, — I  might 
— oh,  I  could  not  see  her  again.  I  had  rather  live 
in  doubt.  And  whether  Hugh  loves  her  or  not  I 
would  I  knew.  Mistress  Wynne  does  but  laugh  and 
say,  '  Lord  bless  us  !  they  aU  love  her ! '  Hugh  is, 
as  to  some  things,  reticent,  and  of  Darthea  likes  so 
little  to  speak  that  I  am  led  to  think  it  is  a  serious 
business  for  him ;  and  if  it  be  so,  what  can  I  but  go  ? 
for  how  could  I  come  between  him  and  a  woman 
he  loved  ?  Never,  surely.  Why  is  life  such  a  tangle  ? 
As  concerns  this  thing,  it  is  weU  I  am  going.  What 
else  is  left  for  me  ?    My  duty  has  long  been  plain. 

"I  did  venture  to  ask  Darthea  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Wynne.  She  said  quietly,  '  I  have  had  a  letter  to- 
day;' and  with  tliis  she  looked  at  me  in  a  sort  of 
defiant  way.  I  like  the  man  not  at  aU,  and  wonder 
that  women  fancy  him  so  greatly.  When  I  said  I 
was  sorry  she  was  going,  she  replied,  'It  is  no 
one's  business ; '  and  then  added,  '  nor  Mr.  Wynne's 
neither,'  as  if  Hugh  had  said  a  word.  In  fact,  Miss 
Peniston  was  almost  as  cross  and  abrupt  as  dear  Miss 
Wynne  at  her  worst.  If  ever,  God  willing,  I  should 
marry  her, — there,  I  am  blushing  even  to  think  of 
such  a  sweet  impossibility,— she  would  drive  me  fran- 
tic. I  should  be  in  small  rages  or  begging  her  par- 
don every  haK-hour  of  the  day. 

"  What  will  Hugh  say  when  he  hears  the  Meeting 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      237 

means  to  disown  ns?  It  troubles  me  deeply.  My 
father  is  trembling  too,  for  since  a  month  he  is  all 
for  resisting  oppression,  and  who  has  been  talking 
to  him  I  do  not  know.  i\Iiss  Wynne  called  him  a 
decrepit  weathercock  to  me  last  month,  and  then 
was  in  a  fury  at  hei'self ,  and  soitv  too ;  but  she  will 
talk  with  him  no  more.  It  cannot  be  because  he 
has  sold  his  HoUand  cloths  so  well  to  the  clothier- 
geuenil.     I  never  can  tliink  that. 

"  When  I  saw  Miss  Wynne,  and  would  have  seen 
Hugh  had  he  been  in,  I  told  her  of  my  meaning  to 
go  away  by  the  packet  to  BurUngton,  and  thence 
through  New  Jersey.  She  said  it  was  well,  but  that 
Hugh  should  not  go  j-et.  He  should  go  soon.  Mr. 
Lee,  the  new  general,  had  been  to  see  her— a  great 
soldier,  she  was  told.  But  she  had  not  liked  him, 
because  he  let  her  believe  he  came  of  the  same  family 
as  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Lee  of  Virginia,  whereas  this 
is  not  so.  He  was  lank,  sour,  and  ill  dressed,  she 
said,  and  fetched  his  two  dogs  into  the  house.  When 
he  saw  Hugli,  he  m\d  it  was  time  all  the  young  men 
were  out.  Miss  Wynne  disliked  this,  and  it  is  re- 
ported that  Mrs.  Ferguson  and  she,  meeting  after 
church,  had  nearly  come  to  blows,  because  Mrs.  Fer- 
guriou  had  said  tlie  people  who  made  the  war  should 
be  in  the  war,  and  on  this  the  old  lady  desired  to 
know  if  this  arrow  was  meant  for  her  or  for  her 
nephew.  Mrs.  F.,  not  lacking  courage,  said  she 
might  choose. 

"So  Madam  Wjaine  is  pidled  this  way  and  that, 
and  I  must  go  alone  ;  and  I  shall  have  a  lieutenant's 


238      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

commission,  and  a  pretty  fellow  am  I  to  order  other 
men  about.     I  like  best  the  continental  line." 

I  saw  Jack  the  day  after  my  ride  with  Miss  Pen- 
iston.  I  said  sadly  that  he  was  right,  and  we  talked 
it  all  over  that  week,  running  down  the  river  at  early 
morning  after  ducks,  and  through  the  wdde  channel 
between  League  Island  and  the  Neck;  or  else  we 
were  away  to  Red  Bank,  or  to  the  Jersey  coast,  if 
the  ice  permitted,  as  it  often  did.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful, open  winter,  as  it  chanced,  and  we  had  more 
than  our  usual  share  of  the  ducks,  which  were  very 
abundant.  As  we  lay  in  the  gray  weeds  below  the 
bluff  at  Red  Bank,  we  little  thought  of  what  it  was 
to  see.  Our  gallant  Mercer,  who  fell  at  Princeton, 
was  to  give  a  name  to  the  fort  we  built  long  after ; 
and  there,  too,  was  to  die  Count  Donop,  as  brave  a 
man,  far  from  home,  sold  by  his  own  prince  to  be 
the  hireling  of  a  shameful  king. 

The  ducks  flew  over  thick,  and  between  times,  as 
we  waited,  we  talked  at  intervals  of  the  war,  of 
Montgomery's  failure  to  capture  Quebec,  and  of  the 
lingering  siege  of  Boston ;  of  how  the  brutal  de- 
struction of  Norfolk  in  December  had  stirred  the  Vir- 
ginians, and  indeed  every  true  heart  in  the  colonies. 
Jack  would  write  when  occasion  served. 

That  last  day  (it  was  now  February,  as  I  have  said) 
we  supped  with  my  aunt.  Jack  and  I.  After  the  meal 
was  over,  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and,  coming  back, 
gave  Jack  a  handsome,  serviceable  sword,  with  a 
proper  sash  and  tie.  Then  she  must  make  him  take 
a  hundi-ed  pounds  m  a  purse  she  had  netted;  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      239 

when  he  -woukl  not  she  said  he  was  going:  to  school, 
and  must  have  a  tip,  and  woidd  hear  no  more,  and 
kissed  him,  at  which  he  got  very  red.  Indeed,  she 
was  dee})!}'  moved,  as  was  plain  to  see  from  the  way 
she  talked,  spetddng  fast,  and  saying  all  manner  of 
foolish  things. 

This  business  of  the  sword  troubled  me  more  than 
it  ought  to  have  done,  and  I  resolved  that  nothing 
should  long  keep  me  out  of  the  field ;  but  alas  !  it  was 
many  a  day  befoi-e  my  going  became  possible.  And 
so  my  Jack  went  away,  and  Miss  Pemston. 

The  wai'  was  dull  for  a  time,  as  the  armies  got 
ready  for  a  spring  at  each  other's  throats.  At  last, 
in  Marcli,  his  Excellen<'v  seized  Dorchester  Heights, 
and  Boston  became  no  longer  tenable.  Howe  left 
it  on  March  17,  and,  what  was  as  desirable,  some  two 
hundred  cannon  and  vast  stores  of  ammunition. 
Then,  on  Cambridge  Common,  our  chief  threw  to  the 
free  winds  our  flag,  with  its  thii*teen  stripes,  and  still 
in  the  corner  the  blood-rod  cross  of  St.  George. 

Late  in  this  winter  of  '75- 7G,  an  event  took  place, 
or  rather  the  sequel  of  an  event,  wliich  made  me  feel 
deeply  the  emban-assniont  in  which  the  condition  of 
my  aunt  and  father  jjlaced  me.  He  who  reads  ma}' 
remember  my  speaking  of  a  young  fellow  whom  I 
saw  at  the  Woodlands,  John  Macpherson.  I  took 
A  great  fancy  to  him  later,  and  we  fished  and  shot 
together  until  he  went  away,  in  August  of  '75,  to 
join  Am(»ld  for  his  wild  march  mto  Canada. 

His  father,  broken  and  sad,  now  brouglit  to  my 
aunt  the  news  of  his  son's  death  in  the  assault  on 


240      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

Quebec,  and,  speechless  with  grief,  showed  her  the 
young  fellow's  letter,  writ  the  night  before  he  fell. 
He  wrote,  with  other  matter :  "  I  cannot  resist  the 
inclination  I  feel  to  assure  you  that  I  experience  no 
reluctance  in  this  cause  to  venture  a  life  I  consider 
as  only  lent,  and  to  be  used  when  my  country  de- 
mands it."  He  went  on  to  say  that,  if  he  died,  he 
could  wish  his  brother  WiHiam,  an  adjutant  in  the 
king-'s  army,  would  not  continue  in  the  service  of 
our  enemies.  I  saw,  too,  General  Schuyler's  letter 
of  condolence,  but  this  was  later. 

Nothing  had  moved  me  like  this.  I  went  away, 
leaving  the  father  and  my  aunt.  People  came  to  this 
strong  woman,  sure  of  her  tenderest  help,  and  I  trust 
she  comforted  her  friend  in  his  loss.  This  was  the 
first  ofl&cer  of  our  own  set  our  city  lost  in  war,  and 
the  news,  I  think,  affected  me  more  than  any.  How, 
indeed,  could  I  dare  to  stay  when  the  best  manhood 
of  the  land  was  facing  death  in  a  cause  as  dear  to 
me  as  to  any  f 

In  June  a  new  calamity  fell  on  me,  or  I  should  say 
on  my  father ;  for  I  felt  it  but  little,  or  only  as  in 
some  degree  a  release  from  bonds  which  I  hesitated 
to  sever  by  my  own  act.  On  the  morning  of  June  25, 
my  father  called  me  into  his  counting-room,  and, 
closing  the  door,  sat  down,  I,  as  was  thought  fit, 
standing  until  told  to  be  seated.  Since  he  made  no 
sign  of  any  such  desire  on  his  part,  I  knew  at  once 
that  this  was  not  to  be  a  talk  about  our  affah-s,  in 
which,  I  may  say,  I  had  no  interest  except  as  to  a 
very  moderate  salary. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      241 

r  —■■■—■■'"■  ■ w 

"Thou  wilt  have  to-day  a  call  from  Friend  Pem- 
bertou.  The  overseers  are  moved,  at  last,  to  call  tliee 
to  au  aeeouut.  I  have  k)st  hope  that  thou  wilt  for- 
sake aud  eoiideinu  thy  error.  I  have  worked  with 
the  overseers  to  {j^ive  tliee  and  thy  friend,  John  War- 
der, time,  and  this  has  been  with  tenderness  accorded. 
No  good  is  yet  come  of  it.  If  this  private  admoni- 
tion be  of  no  effect,  thy  case  \vill  come  before  over- 
seers again,  and  thou  wilt  be  dealt  with  as  a  disorderly 
person,  recommended  to  be  disowned,  when  thy  mis- 
deeds come  to  be  laid  before  the  Quarterly  Meeting 
for  discipline.  Already  the  Yearly  Meeting  hath 
found  fault  with  us  for  lax  dealing  with  such  as 
thou  art.  Thou  liast  ceased  to  obey  either  thy 
father  or  thy  God,  and  now  my  sliame  for  thee  is 
opened  to  all  men." 

Not  gi-eatly  moved  I  listened  to  this  summary'  of 
what  was  to  happen.  "  It  is  too  late,"  I  said,  "  to 
argue  this  matter,  my  dear  father.  I  cannot  sin 
agjiinst  my  conscience.  I  will  receive  Mr.  Pemberton 
as  thy  friend.  He  is  a  man  whom  all  men  respect 
and  many  love,  but  his  ways  are  no  longer  my  ways. 
Is  that  all  ? "  I  added.  I  feared  any  long  talk  with 
my  father.  We  were  as  sure  to  fall  out  at  last  as 
were  he  and  my  Aunt  Gaiuor. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  that  is  all.  And  tell  Wilson  to 
bring  me  the  invoice  of  the  'Saucy  Sally.'" 

This  time  neither  of  us  had  lost  temper.     He  had 

transacted  a  ])iece  of  ])usiness  whic^h  concerned  my 

soul,  and  I  had  listened.     It  had  left  me  sore,  but 

that  was  au  old  aud  too  familiar  story.     Reflecting 
10 


242      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

on  what  had  passed  in  the  counting-house,— and  my 
conclusion  now  shows  me  how  fast  I  was  growing 
older,— I  put  on  my  hat  at  once,  and  set  out  to  find 
the  overseer  deputed  to  make  a  private  remonstrance 
with  my  father's  son.  I  suppose  that  my  action  was 
also  hastened  by  a  disinclination  to  lie  still,  awaiting 
an  unpleasant  and  unavoidable  business. 

Finding  James  Pemberton  in  his  office,  I  told  him 
that  my  errand  was  out  of  respect  to  relieve  him  of 
the  need  to  call  upon  a  younger  man.  He  seemed 
pleased,  and  opened  the  matter  in  a  way  so  gentle 
and  considerate  that  I  am  sure  no  man  could  have 
bettered  the  manner  of  doing  it.  My  attention  to 
business  and  quieter  life  had  for  a  time  reassured 
the  overseers.  He  would  not  speak  of  blood-guilti- 
ness now,  for  out  of  kindness  to  my  distressed  parent 
they  had  seen  fit  to  wait,  and  for  a  time  to  set  it 
aside.  My  father  had  been  in  much  affliction,  and 
Friends  had  taken  note  of  this.  Now  he  had  to  call 
to  my  mind  the  testimony  of  Friends  as  to  war,  and 
even  how  many  had  been  reported  to  the  Yearly 
Meeting  for  Sufferings  on  account  of  righteous  un- 
willingness to  resist  constituted  authority,  and  how 
men  of  my  views  had  oppressed  and  abused  them. 
Had  I  read  the  letter  of  the  Yearly  Meeting  of  1774, 
warning  members  not  to  depart  from  their  peaceful 
principles  by  taking  part  in  any  of  the  political  mat- 
ters then  being  stirred  up,  reminding  all  Friends  that 
under  the  king's  government  they  had  been  favoured 
with  a  peaceful  and  prosperous  enjoyment  of  their 
rights,  and  the  like  ? 


HughW'vnne:  Free  Quaker      243 

I  listened  quietly,  and  said  it  was  too  late  to  discuss 
these  que^tiuns,  which  were  many ;  that  my  mind 
was  fully  made  \\\\  and  that  as  soon  as  possible  I 
meant  to  enter  the  army.  He  had  the  good  sense 
to  see  tliat  I  was  of  no  inclination  to  change ;  and 
so,  after  some  words  of  the  most  tender  remonstrance, 
he  bade  me  to  prayerfully  consider  the  business  fur- 
ther, since  overseers  would  not  meet  at  once,  and 
even  when  they  did  there  would  be  time  to  manifest 
to  Friends  a  iust  sense  of  mv  errors. 

I  thanked  him,  and  went  mv  wav,  makinc:,  however, 
no  sign  of  grace,  so  that,  on  July  4  of  this  177G, 
late  in  the  evening,  I  re(;eived  in  my  aunt's  presence 
a  letter  from  Isaac  Freeman,  clerk  of  the  Meeting, 
inclosing  a  formal  minute  of  the  final  action  of 
Friends  in  my  case. 

*'\Miat  is  that?''  said  Aunt  Gainor,  verj'  cheerful 
over  a  letter  of  thanks  to  her  for  having  sold  at  cost 
to  the  Committee  of  Safety  the  cloth  of  HoUand  and 
the  blankets  she  had  induced  my  father  to  buy  for 
lier.  She  liad  stored  them  away  for  tliis  hour  of 
need,  and  was  now  full  of  satisfaction  because  of 
having  made  my  father  the  means  of  clothing  the 
continental  troops, 

"Reiul  it  aloud.  What  is  it,  sir?"  I  was  smiling 
over  wliat  a  few  years  before  would  have  cost  me 
many  a  })itter  thought. 

"Give  it  me!  What  is  it?''  Then  she  put  on  a 
pair  of  the  new  spectacles  with  wire  supports  to  rest 
on  the  eai's.  "  Dr.  Franklin  gave  me  these  new  in- 
ventions, and  a  great  comfort  too.    I  cannot  endure 


244      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

bridge  glasses ;  they  leave  dents  in  one's  nose.  You 
have  not  seen  him  lately.  He  was  here  to-day.  You 
should  see  him,  Hugh.  He  was  dressed  very  fine  in 
a  velvet  coat  with  new,  shilling  buttons,  and  bless 
me !  but  he  has  got  manners  as  fine  as  his  ruffles, 
and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal— Mechlin  of  the  best 
You  would  not  know  the  man." 

With  this  she  began  to  look  at  my  letter.  "  Hoity- 
toity,  sir !  this  is  a  fine  setting  down  for  a  naughty 
Quaker."  And  she  read  it  aloud  in  a  strong  voice, 
her  head  back,  and  the  great  promontory  of  her  nose 
twitching  at  the  nostrils  now  and  then  with  supreme 
contempt : 

'^ '  To  Hugh  Wynne  :  A  minute,  this  Tenth-day  of 
Sixth-month,  1776,  from  the  monthly  Meeting  of 
Friends  held  at  Philadelphia. 

*^ '  Whereas  Hugh  Wynne  hath  had  his  birth  and 
education  among  Friends,  and,  as  we  believe,  hath 
been  convinced  of  that  divine  principle  which  pre- 
serves the  followers  thereof  from  a  disposition  to 
contend  for  the  asserting  of  civil  rights  in  a  manner 
contrary  to  our  peaceful  profession,  yet  doth  not 
manifest  a  disposition  to  make  the  Meeting  a  proper 
acknowledgment  of  his  outgoings,  and  hath  further 
declared  his  intention  to  continue  his  wi'ong-doing ; 

" '  Therefore,  for  the  clearing  of  truth  and  our 
society,  we  give  forth  our  testimony  against  such 
breaches,  and  can  have  no  unity  with  him,  the  said 
Hugh  Wynne,  as  a  member  of  our  society  until  he 
become  sensible  of  his  deviations,  and  come  to  a  sense 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      245 

of  his  error,  and  condemn  the  same  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  Friends ;  which  is  that  we,  as  Christian  men, 
desire. 

"  '  Signed  in,  and  on  behalf  of,  the  Meeting  by 

" '  Isaac  Free^ian, 
" '  Clerk: 

"  "Wliat  insolent  nonsense  ! "  cried  Miss  WjTine.  "  I 
hope  your  fatlier  is  satisfied.  I  assure  you  I  am. 
You  ai*e  free  at  last.  Here  was  James  Warder  to-day 
with  a  like  document  to  tlie  address  of  my  dear  Jack. 
I  was  assm-ed  that  it  was  a  terrible  disgrace.  I  bade 
him  take  snuff  and  not  be  any  greater  fool  than  na- 
ture had  nuide  him.  He  took  my  snuff  and  sneezed 
for  ten  minut-es.  I  think  it  helped  him.  One  can 
neither  grieve  nor  reason  when  one  is  sneezing.  It 
is  what  Dr.  Rush  calls  a  moral  alterative.  Whenever 
tlie  man  fell  to  lamenting,  I  gave  him  more  snuff. 
I  tliink  it  helped  him.  And  so  the  baa-lambs  of  Meet- 
ing have  disowned  their  two  black  sheep.  Well,  well ! 
I  have  better  news  for  you.  Mr.  Carroll  was  here 
just  now,  with  his  charming  ways.  One  would  think 
when  he  is  talking  that  one  is  the  only  woman  alive. 
If  I  thought  the  priests  taught  him  the  trick,  I  would 
turn  papist.  You  should  observe  his  bow,  Hugh.  I 
thought  Mr.  Chew's  bow  not  to  be  surpassed;  but 
Mr.  Carroll  — oh,  where  was  I?" 

"  Some  good  news,*'  I  said. 

"  Yes,  yes.  lie  tells  me  the  Congress  this  evening 
vot<?d  for  a  Declaration  of  Independence." 

"  Indeed !  "  I  cried.     "  So  it  has  come  at  last.     I, 


246      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

too,  am  free,  and  it  is  time  I  went  away,  Aunt 
Gainor." 

"We  will  see,"  she  said.  "How  can  I  do  without 
you?  and  there  is  your  father  too.  He  is  not  the 
man  he  was,  and  I  do  not  see,  Hugh,  how  you  can 
leave  him  yet." 

It  was  too  true,  as  my  last  interview  had  shown 
me.  He  was  no  longer  the  strong,  steadily  obstinate 
John  Wynne  of  a  year  or  two  back.  He  was  less 
decisive,  made  occasional  errors  in  his  accounts,  and 
would  sometimes  commit  himself  to  risky  ventures. 
Then  Thomas  Mason,  our  clerk,  or  my  aunt  would 
interfere,  and  he  would  protest  and  yield,  having  now 
by  habit  a  great  respect  for  my  aunt's  sagacity,  which 
in  fact  was  remarkable. 

I  went  back  to  my  work  discontented,  and  pulled 
this  way  and  that,  not  clearly  seeing  what  I  ought 
to  do ;  for  how  could  I  leave  him  as  he  now  was  ? 
My  aunt  was  right. 

Next  day  I  heard  Captain  John  Nixon  read  in  the 
State-house  yard  the  noble  words  of  the  declara- 
tion. Only  a  few  hundred  were  there  to  hear  it,  and 
its  vast  consequences  few  men  as  yet  could  apprehend. 
Miss  Non'is  told  me  not  long  after  that  she  climbed 
on  a  baiTOW  and  looked  over  their  garden  wall  at 
Fifth  street  and  Chestnut ;  "  and  really,  Mr.  Wynne, 
there  were  not  ten  decent  coats  in  the  crowd."  But 
this  Miss  Norris  was  a  hot  Tory,  and  thought  us  all 
an  underbred  mob,  as,  I  fear,  did  most  of  the  pro- 
prietary set— the  men  lacking  civil  courage  to  fight 
on  either  side,  and  amazed  that  Mr.  Wilson,  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      247 


Mr.  IRood,  and  !Mr.  Robert  Morris,  and  the  Yirg^iuia 
gentry,  s1k>u1(1  side  with  demagogues  like  Adams 
and  Roger  Sherman. 

And  so  time  ran  on.  I  fenced,  drilled,  saw  my 
companions  drift  away  into  war,  and  knew  not  how 
to  eseape.  I  eau  now  look  back  on  my  dismissal 
from  Meeting  with  more  regret  than  it  gave  my  youth. 
I  have  never  seen  my  way  to  a  return  to  Friends; 
yet  I  am  still  apt  to  be  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  small 
number  who  constitute,  with  Wetherill  and  Owen 
and  Clement  Biddle,  the  society  of  Friends  known 
as  Free  Quakers.  To  discuss  why  later  I  did  not 
claim  my  place  as  one  of  these  would  lead  me  to 
speaking  of  spiritual  affairs,  and  this,  as  I  have  else- 
wliere  said,  I  never  do  willingly,  nor  with  comfort  to 
mvself. 

One  afternoon  in  September  of  this  year  I  was 
balancing  an  account  when  my  father  came  in  and 
told  me  that  Mason,  our  clerk,  had  just  had  a  fall  in 
the  hold  of  one  of  our  ships.  The  day  after  I  saw 
him,  and  although  his  hui-ts  were  painful  they  hardly 
seemed  to  justify  my  father  in  his  desire  that  now 
at  last  he  should  take  a  long  rest  from  work. 

This  threw  all  the  detail  of  our  affairs  as  largely 
into  my  hands  as  was  possible  with  a  man  like  my 
father.  I  think  he  guessed  my  intention  to  leave 
hiin  for  the  anuy,  and  gladly  improved  this  chance 
to  load  me  with  needless  affairs,  and  all  manner  of 
small  perplexities.  My  aunt  was  better— in  fact, 
well ;  liut  lure  was  this  new  trouble.  AMiat  could  I 
do?     My  father  declared  that  the  old  clerk  would 


248      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

soon  be  able  to  resume  his  place,  and  meanwhile, 
he  should  have  no  one  to  help  him  but  me.  Now 
and  then,  to  my  surprise,  he  made  some  absurd  busi- 
ness venture,  and  was  impatient  if  I  said  a  word  of 
remonstrance.  Twice  I  was  sent  to  Maryland  to  see 
after  our  tobacco  plantations.  I  was  in  despair,  and 
became  depressed  and  querulous,  seeing  no  present 
way,  nor  any  future  likelihood,  of  escape.  My  father 
was  well  pleased,  and  even  my  aunt  seemed  to  me 
too  well  satisfied  with  the  ill  turn  which  fate  had 
done  me.  My  father  was  clearly  using  the  poor  old 
clerk's  calamity  as  an  excuse  to  keep  me  busy ;  nor 
was  it  at  all  like  him  to  employ  such  subterfuges. 
All  his  life  long  he  had  been  direct,  positive,  and 
dictatorial ;  a  few  years  back  he  would  have  ordered 
me  to  give  up  all  idea  of  the  army,  and  would  as  like 
as  not  have  punished  resistance  with  cold-blooded 
disinheritance.  He  was  visibly  and  but  too  clearly 
changing  from  the  resolute,  uncompromising  man 
he  had  once  been.  Was  he  cunning  enough  to  know 
that  his  weakness  was  for  me  a  bondage  far  stronger 
than  his  more  vigorous  rule  had  ever  been  ? 


XV 


|Y  personal  difficulties  were  not  made  more 
easy  to  bear  by  the  course  of  public 
events.  Howe  had  taken  New  York. 
S.  In  November  Fort  Wasliiugton  fell. 
Jack,  who  was  within  its  walls,  got 
away,  but  was  slisrhtly  wounded.  Our  English  gen- 
eral, Lee.  had  begun  already  to  intrigue  against 
Mr.  Washington,  writing,  as  Dr.  Kush  confided  to  my 
aunt,  that  he,  Lee,  ought  to  be  made  dictator.  My 
aunt  received  the  impression  that  the  doctor,  who 
loved  his  country  well,  was  becoming  discontented 
with  our  chief;  but  neither  then  nor  later  did  she 
change  her  own  oiiinion  of  the  reserved  and  cour- 
teous Virginian. 

He  soon  justified  her  views  of  his  capacity.  On 
December  1  he  broke  down  the  bridges  in  his  rear 
over  the  Raritan,  and  marched  through  Jersey  with 
a  dwindling  army.  At  Princeton  he  had  but  three 
thou.sand  men  ;  destroying  even*  boat,  he  wisely  put 
the  broad  Delaware  })etween  his  army  and  the  enemy. 
Lord  Cornwallis  halted  at  the  river,  waiting  for  it 
to  freeze  that  he  might  cross,  and  until  this  should 
happen  went  back  with  Howe  to  New  York.  About 
December  15  of  '70,  General  Lee  was  captured,  and. 


^49 


250      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

strange  as  it  may  now  seem,  no  calamity  yet  come 
upon  us  created  more  consternation.  Meanwhile 
our  own  alarmed  citizens  began  to  bury  their  silver 
plate.  While  the  feeble  were  flying,  and  the  doubtful 
were  ready  to  renew  their  oath  to  the  king,  the  wary 
and  resolute  commander-in-chief  saw  his  chance. 

To  aid  his  courageous  resolve  came  Sullivan  and 
Gates  from  Lee's  late  command.  "  At  sunset  on 
Christmas  day  we  crossed  the  Delaware,"  writes  Jack. 
"  My  general  was  in  a  small  boat,  with  Knox,  and 
two  boatmen.  We  were  ten  hours  in  the  ice,  and 
marched  nine  miles,  after  crossing,  in  a  blinding  storm 
of  sleet.  By  God's  grace  we  took  one  thousand  of 
those  blackguard  Hessians,  and,  but  for  Cadwaladei-'s 
ill  luck  with  the  ice,  would  have  got  Donop  also.  I 
had  a  finger  froze,  but  no  worse  accident. 

''  I  dare  say  you  know  we  fell  back  beyond  Assun- 
pink  Creek,  below  Trenton.  There  we  fought  my 
lord  marquis  again  with  good  fortune.  Meanwhile 
he  weakened  his  force  at  Princeton,  and,  I  fancy, 
thought  we  were  in  a  trap ;  but  our  general  left  fii'es 
burning,  passed  round  the  enemy's  left,  and,  as  we 
came  near  Princeton  at  sunrise,  fell  upon  Colonel 
Mawhood  on  his  way  to  join  Cornwallis.  I  was  close 
to  General  Mercer  when  we  saw  them,  and  had  as 
usual  a  fit  of  the  shakes,  hang  them !  Luckily  there 
was  small  leisure  to  think. 

"In  the  first  onset,  which  was  fierce,  our  brave 
general  was  mortally  wounded ;  and  then,  his  Excel- 
lency coming  up,  we  routed  them  finely.  So  away 
went  Cornwallis,  with  the  trapped  hot  after  the  trap- 


Hugh  \\''ynne:  Free  Quaker      251 

pers.  "We  have  the  Jerseys  and  two  thousand  pris- 
ouei-s.  I  do  not  think  even  Miss  Wvnne  can  imagine 
what  courai^e  it  took  for  our  ijonoral  to  turn  as  he 
did  on  an  army  like  that  of  Coruwallis'.  Are  you 
never  coming  f 

"  It  is  sad  that  the  Southern  officers  look  upon  us 
and  those  of  New  England  as  tradesfolk,  and  this 
makes  constant  trouble,  especially  among  the  militia, 
who  come  and  go  much  as  they  please.  I  have  had 
no  i>erson!U  difficulty,  but  there  have  been  several 
duels,  of  which  little  is  said. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Congress  will  now  order 
all  enlistments  to  be  for  the  war,  else  we  shall  soon  be 
in  a  mortiil  bad  way.    Hast  heard  of  Miss  Peuiston  ? " 

This  letter  came  soon  after  the  smart  little  winter 
cami)aign  in  Jersey  had  made  us  all  so  happy. 

'•  It  will  last  a  good  while  yet,"  said  James  Wilson. 
'•  And  when  are  you  going,  Hugh  ? "  Indeed,  I  began 
at  last  to  see  a  way  opened,  as  we  of  Friends  say ; 
for  now,  in  the  spring,  our  old  clerk  hob])led  back  to 
his  desk,  and  I  knew  that  my  father  would  no  longer 
be  left  without  friendly  and  fannliar  help.  But  be- 
fore he  could  assume  his  full  duties  August  was  upon 
us— August  of  77,  a  year  for  me  most  eventful. 
Darthea's  letters  to  my  aunt  grew  less  and  less  fre-  ' 
(luent,  and,  as  I  thought,  had  an  air  of  sadness  un- 
usual in  this  gladsome  creature.  Once  .she  spoke  of 
Captain  Wynne  as  absent,  and  once  that  he,  like  Jack, 
had  had  a  slight  wound  in  the  storm  of  Fort  Wash- 
ington. Of  politics  she  could  say  nothing,  as  her 
letters  had  usually  to  pass  our  lines. 


252      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

On  July  31  Wasliingtoii  knew  that  Howe's  fleet 
was  off  the  Delaware  capes.  Meanwhile  he  had 
crossed  that  river  into  Pennsylvania,  and  hurried  his 
army  across  country,  finally  encamping  on  a  Satur- 
day at  Nicetown,  some  five  miles  from  Philadelphia. 
I  rode  out  that  evening  to  meet  Jack,  whose  troop 
camped  even  nearer  to  town,  and  close  to  the  tents 
of  the  headquarters  staff.  The  general  lay  for  this 
nigJit  at  Stenton,  where  our  Quaker  friends,  the 
Logans,  lived.  He  was  shown,  I  was  told,  the  secret 
stairway  and  the  underground  passage  to  the  stable 
and  beyond,  and  was  disposed  to  think  it  curious. 

Jack,  now  a  captain,  in  a  new  suit  of  blue  and  buff, 
looked  brown  and  hardy,  and  his  figure  had  spread, 
but  the  locks  were  as  yellow  and  the  cheeks  as  rosy 
as  ever  I  knew  them. 

Dear  Aunt  Gainor  made  much  of  him  that  evening, 
and  we  talked  late  into  the  night  of  battles  and 
generals  and  what  had  gone  with  Lord  Howe.  I 
went  to  bed  discontented,  feeling  myself  to  be  a  verj'' 
inconsiderable  person,  and  Jack  rode  away  to  camp. 
The  next  day  being  Sunday,  the  24th  of  August, 
his  Excellency  marched  into  tovm  by  Front  street  at 
the  head  of  the  flower  of  his  army,  in  all  about  eleven 
thousand.  Fine  men  they  were,  but  many  half  clad 
and  ill  shod ;  fairly  drilled  too,  but  not  as  they  were 
later  in  the  war.  The  town  was  wild  with  delight, 
and  every  one  glad  save  the  Tories  and  the  Quakers, 
many  of  whom  remained  all  day  in  their  houses. 

This  march  being  made  only  to  exhibit  the  army 
to  friend  and  foe,  the  troops  moved  out  High  street 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      253 

and  by  the  middle  ferry  a<iross  the  Schuylkill,  on 
their  way  toward  the  Delaware  to  meet  Mr.  Howe, 
who,  having  lauded  at  the  head  of  Elk  River,  was 
now  on  his  way  toward  Pliiladelpliia.  Ilis  troops 
were  slow,  the  i*oa<ls  bad  and  few,  the  ague  iu  great 
force  aud  severe— or  so  we  heard.  I  rode  sadly  with 
our  peoi)le  as  far  as  Darby,  and  then  turned  home- 
ward a  vexed  and  dispirit^nl  man.  It  was,  I  tliink, 
on  the  4th  of  August  that  our  general,  who  had  rid- 
den on  in  advance  of  his  army,  fii'st  met  Marquis 
Lafayette. 

My  aunt,  who  spoke  French  with  remarkable  flu- 
ency and  a  calm  disregard  of  accent  and  inflections, 
was  well  pleased  to  entertain  the  French  gentleman, 
aud  at  her  house  I  had  the  happiness  to  make  his 
ac([uaintance,  greatly,  as  it  proved,  to  my  futui-e  ad- 
vantage. He  was  glad  to  find  any  who  spoke  his 
own  tongue  well,  and  discussed  our  affairs  ■with  me, 
horrified  at  the  la^'kof  decent  uniforms  and  discipline, 
but,  like  me,  pleased  with  the  tall,  strong  men  he  saw 
in  our  ranks.  Later  my  acqujuntance  with  French 
was  of  much  use  to  me ;  so  little  can  a  man  tell  what 
value  an  accomplishment  will  have  for  him. 

Tlie  marquis  was  very  young,  aud  somewhat  free 
in  stating  his  o])inions.  At  this  time  he  thought 
Mr.  Howe  int^^ndcd  Charleston,  and,  like  others,  wtis 
amazed  at  his  folly  in  not  going  up  the  Delaware 
Bay  to  land  liis  troops.  His  strange  strategy  left 
Burgoyne  to  the  fate  in  store  for  him  at  Saratoga, 
where  the  latter  general  was  to  act  a  first  jmrt  in  a 
tragic  drama  much  finer  than  those  ho  wrote,  which 


254      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


were  so  greatly  praised  by  the  fine  ladies  in  London, 
and  indeed  by  some  better  critics. 

A  letter  of  Jack's  came  to  hand  during  this  week. 
In  it  he  said  my  aunt  must  leave,  as  he  was  sure  we 
had  not  force  enough  to  keep  General  Howe  out 
of  Philadelphia.  But  the  old  lady  said,  "  Not  I,  in- 
deed !  "  and  I  think  no  mortal  power  could  have  in- 
duced her  to  go  away.  She  even  declined  to  bury 
her  silver,  as  many  had  done.  Not  so  the  rest  of 
the  Whigs.  Every  one  fled  who  knew  where  to  go, 
or  who  feared  to  be  called  to  account;  and  none 
would  hear  of  defending  the  town,  as  should  have 
been  attempted. 

Jack's  letter  went  on  to  say  that  in  Delaware  the 
general  had  a  narrow  escape.  "  He  rode  out,"  says 
Jack,  "  with  Marquis  Lafayette  on  a  reconnaissance, 
attended  by  but  two  ofi&cers  and  an  orderly.  General 
SuUivan  had  an  officer  follow  with  a  half -troop ;  but 
the  general,  fearing  such  numbers  might  attract 
attention,  ordered  them  to  wait  behind  a  thicket. 
Looking  thence,  they  saw  the  general  ride  du-ect 
toward  a  picket  of  the  enemy,  which  from  their 
vantage  they  could  see,  but  he  could  not.  An  Eng- 
lish officer,  perceiving  him,  seemed  to  give  an  order 
to  fire ;  but  as  the  men  raised  their  pieces  he  struck 
them  up.  As  he  was  about  to  give  the  order  to  fire, 
the  general,  being  satisfied,  had  turned  his  back  to 
ride  away.  It  is  a  curious  tale,  is  it  not  ?  and  none 
can  explain  it." 

Long  years  after  I  myself  met  an  EngUsh  officer, 
a  General  Henderson,  in  Canada,  and  on  my  telling 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      255" 

■  ■  -  -  -' 

him  the  incident,  he  said  at  once  it  was  he  who  was 
concerned,  and  tliat  when  the  general  tiu'ued  to  ride 
away  he  (.-oiild  not  make  up  his  mind  to  shoot  down 
a  man  who  had  turned  his  back.  He  was  amazed 
and  pleased  to  know  who  it  was  he  thus  spared. 

On  the  11th  of  September,  at  evening,  came  the 
disaster  of  Brandywine,  and  on  the  26th  Lord  Corn- 
walhs  njarched  into  our  city,  with  two  batteries  and 
the  Sixteenth  Dragoons  and  Grenadiers.  They  were 
received  quietly,  and  that  evening  my  Cousin  Arthur 
appeared  at  our  house.  My  father,  who  had  been 
very  inert  of  late,  seemed  to  arouse  himself,  and  ex- 
pressed quite  forcibly  his  joy  and  relief  at  the  coming 
of  the  troops.  He  recounted  his  gi'iefs,  too:  how 
that,  refusing  the  militia  tax,  the  Committee  of  Safety 
had  taken  away  his  great  tankard,  and  later  two 
tables,  which  was  true  enough.  Then,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, m\'  father  declared  Arthur  must  stay  with  us, 
which  he  was  notliing  loath  to  do. 

I  was  cool,  as  you  may  suppose,  but  it  was  difficult 
for  man  or  woman  to  resist  Arthur  Wynne  when 
he  meant  to  be  pleasant ;  and  so,  putting  my  dislike 
aside,  I  found  myself  chatting  with  him  about  the 
war  and  what  not.  In  fact,  he  was  a  guest,  and  what 
else  could  I  do  f 

My  aunt  kept  herself  indoors  and  would  none  of 
the  Galloways  and  Aliens,  who  had  come  back  in 
swarms,  nor  even  the  neutrals,  Uke  Mr.  Penn,  whom 
she  much  liked.  The  day  after  the  town  was  occu- 
]>ied,  Captiiin  Wynne  appeared  early  in  the  morning, 
as  we  were  dibcusbiug  u  matter  of  buisiness.     He 


256      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


took  it  for  granted,  I  presume,  that  my  aunt  would 
see  him,  and  went  past  the  turbaned  black  boy 
despite  his  small  remonstrances.  My  aunt  rose  to 
the  full  of  her  great  height,  her  nose  in  the  air,  and 
letting  fall  a  lapful  of  papers. 

"  To  what,"  she  said,  "  have  I  the  honour  to  owe 
a  visit  from  Mr.  Wvnne  ?  Is  mv  house  an  inn,  that 
any  officer  of  the  king  may  enter  whether  I  will  or 
not  ?  " 

Although  he  must  have  been  surprised,  he  was 
perfectly  at  his  ease.  Indeed,  I  envied  him  his  self- 
possession. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  am  charged  "with  a  letter 
from  Miss  Peniston." 

"You  may  put  it  on  the  table,"  says  Mistress 
Wjmne.  "My  brother  may  choose  his  society.  I 
ask  the  same  privilege.  It  will  not  consist  of  gentle- 
men of  your  profession." 

Mr.  "Wynne's  face  grew  black  under  its  dark  skin. 
"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  stay  nowhere  as  an  unwelcome 
guest.  I  thank  you  for  past  kindness,  and  I  humbly 
take  my  leave.  I  could  have  done  you  a  service  as 
to  this  business  of  the  quartering  of  officers,  and  you 
shaU  stiU  have  my  good  offices  for  the  sake  of  the 
many  pleasant  hours  I  have  passed  in  your  house. 
As  my  Cousin  Hugh  says  nothing,  I  am  glad  to  think 
that  he  is  of  a  different  opinion  from  that  which  you 
have  put  in  words  so  agreeably."  With  this  he  went 
away,  leaving  my  aunt  red  in  the  face,  and  speechless 
with  wrath. 

I  thought  he  had  the  best  of  it ;  but  I  merely  said, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      257 

"  My  dear  aunt,  you  should  not  have  been  so  hai-d 
with  him,''  1  did,  indeed,  think  it  both  un^vise  and 
needless. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  says  Miss  Wynne,  walking 
about  as  niv  father  used  to  do.  "  I  do  not  trust  him, 
and  he  has  got  that  girl  in  his  toils,  poor  child !  I 
wonder  what  Ues  he  has  told  her.  How  does  he  hold 
herf  I  did  think  that  was  }»ast  any  man's  power; 
and  she  is  unliappy  too.  When  a  woman  like  Dar- 
thea  begins  to  find  a  man  out,  she  eau't  help  showing 
it,  and  some  are  more  frank  on  paper  than  in  talk ; 
that  is  her  way.  I  am  afraid  I  made  mischief  once, 
for  I  told  him  long  ago  that  I  meant  her  to  marry 
you ;  and  then  I  saw  he  did  not  like  it,  and  I  knew 
I  had  been  a  goose.  WTiatever  is  the  reason  he  hates 
you,  Hugh  ?  Oh  yes,  he  does— he  does.  Is  it  the 
woman  ?     I  will  have  no  redcoats  in  my  house." 

I  got  a  chance  to  say— what  I  was  sorry  to  have 
to  say— how  little  need  there  was  for  him  to  fear 
poor  me,  whom  Darthea  wished  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with,  I  thought. 

"Her  loves  are  like  her  moods,  my  dear  Hugh; 
who  knows  how  long  they  will  last  ?  Until  a  woman 
is  married  she  is  not  to  be  despaired  of," 

I  shook  my  head  sadly  and  went  out. 

I  returned  late  in  the  evening,  to  order  my  horse 
to  be  Siuldlcd  and  sent  to  me  l)efore  breakfast  next 
mornmg;  for  I  kept  it  at  no  cost  in  my  aunt's  amj)le 
stable.  To  my  horror,  I  found  a  sentinel  at  the  door, 
and  the  hull  full  of  anny  })aggage.  In  the  parloiu* 
was  a  tall  Hessian,  General  von  Knyphaiuien,  and 

17 


258      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Count  Donop  and  others,  smoking,  much  at  their  ease. 
They  were  fairly  civil,  but  did  not  concern  themselves 
greatly  if  I  liked  it  or  not.  I  found  my  aunt  in  bed, 
in  a  fever  of  vain  anger. 

She  had  the  bed-curtains  drawn,  and  when  I  was 
bid  to  enter,  put  aside  the  chintz  so  as  to  make  room 
for  her  head,  which  appeared  in  a  tall  nightcap.  I 
am  unfit,  I  fear,  to  describe  this  gear ;  but  it  brought 
out  all  her  large  features  very  strongly,  and  to  have 
seen  her  would  have  terrified  a  Hessian  regiment. 

"  My  house  is  full  of  Dutch  dogs,"  she  cried.  "  As 
soon  as  they  came  they  ordered  bones."  In  fact,  they 
had  asked  quite  civilly  if  they  might  have  supper. 

"I  saw  them  at  their  feed,"  says  my  aunt,  ''and 
the  big  beast,  Greneral  Knyphausen,  spread  my  best 
butter  on  his  bread  with  his  thumb,  sir — liis  thumb  ! 
Count  Donop  is  better;  but  Yon  Heiser!  and  the 
pipes !  heavens !  "  Here  she  retreated  within  her 
curtains,  and  I  heard  her  say,  "  Bessy  Ferguson  saw 
them  come  in,  and  must  sail  across  the  street  and  tell 
Job— the  page  with  the  turban— to  congratulate  me 
for  her,  and  to  advise  me  to  get  a  keg  of  sauerkraut." 

I  assured  my  aunt  that  fortunately  these  were  gen- 
tlemen, but  she  was  inconsolable,  declaring  herself 
ill,  and  that  Dr.  Rush  must  come  at  once. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  he  is  gone  with  aU  the  Congress 
to  York." 

"  Then  I  shall  die,"  moaned  my  aunt. 

At  last,  knowing  her  well,  I  said,  "Is  it  not  too 
sad?" 

"What's  that?    What?" 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qiuiker      259 

"Mr.  Howe  has  Uiken  Mrs.  Pemberton's  can-iage 
and  the  pair  of  soiTels  for  his  owu  use." 

At  this  my  Aunt  Gaiuor's  hirge  face  reappeared, 
not  a.';  niehiueholic  as  before,  and  I  added,  ''  Friend 
Wain  has  six  to  care  for,  and  Thomas  Seattergood 
has  the  Hessian  ehaplain  and  a  drunken  major.  The 
rest  of  Friends  are  no  better  oflf." 

"  Tliank  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies ! "  said  ]Miss 
WjTine. 

*'  And  Mr.  Cadwalader's  house  on  Little  Dock  street 
Sir  William  has." 

"  A  pity  that,  Hugh.  The  fine  furniture  -will  pay 
for  it,  I  fear.  I  think,  Hugh,  I  am  better,  or  I  shall 
be  soon." 

"  They  talk  of  the  Meeting  over  the  way  for  a  bar- 
rack, Aunt  Gainor."  Now  this  was  idly  nmioured, 
but  how  could  one  resist  to  feed  an  occasion  so 
comic  T 

"  I  think  I  should  die  contented,"  said  ^liss  Wj-nne. 
"  Now  go  away,  Hugh.  I  have  had  my  medicine,  and 
I  like  it."  She  was  quick  at  self-analysis,  and  was 
laughing  low,  really  happier  for  the  miseries  of  her 
Tory  acquaintances. 

After  the  bedroom  comedy,  which  much  amused 
me  and  out  of  which  my  aunt  got  great  comfort,  she 
was  inclined  to  be  on  better  terms  with  the  officers 
so  abruptly  thrust  upon  lier.  For  a  while,  howcvci-, 
she  dcf'liiif'd  to  eat  her  meals  Avith  them,  and  wlien 
told  tliat  they  had  had  Colonel  Montresor  to  dine,  and 
had  drunk  tlie  kin^s  health,  she  sent  all  the  glasses 
they  had  used  down  to  the  blacks  in  the  kitchen. 


26o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

and  bade  them  never  to  dare  set  them  on  her  table 
again.  This  much  dehghted  Count  Donop,  who 
loved  George  of  Hanover  no  better  than  did  she,  and 
I  learned  that  she  declared  the  bread-and-butter  busi- 
ness was  the  worst  of  Von  Knyphausen,  and  was 
no  doubt  a  court  custom.  As  to  Count  Donop,  she 
learned  to  like  him.  He  spoke  queer  French,  and 
did  not  smoke.  "  Je  nefoume  pas  chamais,  tnadame" 
he  said ;  "  mais  le  Cheneral,  ilfoume  touchours,  et  Von 
Seiser  le  meme,"  which  was  true.  The  count  knew 
her  London  friends,  and  grieved  that  he  was  sent  on 
a  service  he  did  not  relish,  and  in  which  later  he  was 
to  lose  his  life. 

My  aunt  fed  them  well,  aud  won  at  piquet,  and 
declared  they  were  much  to  be  pitied,  although  Von 
Heiser  was  a  horror.  When  he  had  knocked  down 
her  red-and-gold  Delft  vase,  the  gods  and  the  other 
china  were  put  away,  and  then  the  rugs,  because  of 
the  holes  his  pipe  ashes  burned,  and  still  she  vowed 
it  was  a  comfort  they  were  not  redcoats.  Them  she 
would  have  poisoned. 

Captain  Andre  alone  was  an  exception.  When,  in 
1776,  he  was  made  a  prisoner  by  Montgomery  in 
Canada,  and  after  that  was  on  parole  at  Lancaster,  I 
met  him ;  and  as  he  much  attracted  me,  my  aunt  sent 
him  money,  and  I  was  able  to  ease  his  captivity  by 
making  him  known  to  our  friends,  Mr.  Justice  Yeates 
and  the  good  Cope  people,  who,  being  sound  Tories, 
did  him  such  good  turns  as  he  never  forgot,  and 
kindly  credited  to  us.  Indeed,  he  made  for  my  aunt 
some  pretty  sketches  of  the  fall  woods,  aud,  as  I 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       261 

have  said,  was  welcome  wliei*e  no  other  redcoat  could 
euter. 

My  aunt  was  soon  easier  in  mind,  but  my  own 
condition  was  not  to  be  envied.  Here  was  Arthur 
Wynuf  at  my  father's,  the  Hessians  at  my  aunt's,  the 
Tories  happy,  seven  or  eight  thousand  folks  gone 
away,  every  inn  and  house  full,  and  on  the  street 
crowds  of  unmannerly  officers.  It  was  not  easy  to 
avoid  iiuarrels.  ^Vlready  the  Hessian  soldiers  began 
to  steal  all  manner  of  eatables  from  the  farms  this 
side  of  Schuylkill.  More  to  my  own  inconvenience, 
I  found  that  Major  von  Heiser  had  taken  the  priv- 
ilege of  riding  ray  mare  Lucy  so  hard  that  she  was 
unfit  to  use  for  two  days.  At  last  my  aunt's  chicken- 
coops  suffered,  and  the  voice  of  her  pet  rooster  was 
no  more  heard  in  the  land.  I  did  hear  that,  as  this 
raid  of  some  privates  interfered  with  the  Dutch  gen- 
eral's diet,  one  of  the  offenders  got  the  strappado. 
But  no  one  could  stop  these  fellows,  and  they  were 
so  bold  as  to  enter  houses  and  steal  what  they  wanted, 
until  severe  measures  were  taken  by  Mr.  Howe.  They 
robbed  my  father  boldly,  before  his  eyes,  of  two  fat 
Virginia  peach-fed  hams,  and  all  his  special  tobacco. 
He  stood  by,  and  said  they  ought  not  to  do  it.  This, 
as  they  knew  no  tongue  Init  their  own,  and  Jis  he 
acted  up  to  his  honest  belief  in  the  righteousness  of 
non-resistance,  and  uttered  no  comi)laint,  only  .served 
to  bring  them  again.  But  this  time  I  was  at  home, 
and  neai'ly  killed  a  corporal  with  the  Quaker  staff 
Tliomas  Scattergood  gave  my  father.  The  adven- 
tuiv  seemed  to  compensate  Miss  Wynne  for  her  own 


262      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


losses.  The  corporal  made  a  lying  complaint,  and 
"but  for  Mr.  Andre  I  should  have  been  put  to  serious 
annoyance.  Our  boys  used  to  say  that  the  Hessian 
drum-beat  said,  "  Plunder,  plunder,  plun,  plun,  plun- 
der." And  so  for  the  sad  remnant  of  Whig  gentles 
the  town  was  made  in  all  ways  unbearable. 

There  are  times  when  the  life  sands  seem  to  run 
slowly,  and  others  when  they  flow  swiftly,  as  dur- 
ing this  bewildering  week.  All  manner  of  things 
happened,  mostly  perplexing  or  sad,  and  none  quite 
agreeable.  On  the  28th,  coming  in  about  nine  at 
night,  I  saw  that  there  were  persons  in  the  gi-eat 
front  sitting-room,  w^hich  overlooked  Dock  Creek. 
As  I  came  into  the  light  which  fell  through  the  open 
doorway,  I  stood  unnoticed.  The  room  was  full  of 
pipe  smoke,  and  rimi  and  Hollands  were  on  the  table, 
as  was  common  in  the  days  w^hen  Friends'  Meeting 
made  a  minute  that  Friends  be  vigilant  to  see  that 
those  who  work  in  the  harvest-fields  have  portions  of 
rum.  My  father  and  my  cousin  sat  on  one  side,  op- 
posite a  short,  stout  man  almost  as  swarthy  as  Ar- 
thur, and  with  veiy  small  piercing  eyes,  so  dark  as 
to  seem  black,  which  eyes  never  are. 

I  heard  this  gentleman  say,  "  Wjmne,  I  hear  that 
your  brother  is  worse.  These  elder  brothers  are  un- 
natural animals,  and  vastly  tenacious  of  life."  On 
this  I  noticed  my  cousin  frown  at  him  and  shghtly 
shake  his  head.  The  officer  did  not  take  the  hint, 
if  it  were  one,  but  added,  smiling,  "  He  will  live  to 
bury  you;  unfeeling  brutes— these  elder  brothers. 
Damn  'em ! " 


Hugli  \\'vnne:  Free  Quaker      263 

I  was  sihocked  to  notice  how  inertly  ray  father 
listened  to  the  oath,  and  I  recalled,  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  distress,  what  my  aunt  had  said  of  my 
fathers  state  of  mind.     The  vounj:f  are  accustomed 

*  CD 

to  take  for  granted  the  permanency  of  health  in  their 
elders,  and  to  look  upon  them  as  unchanging  insti- 
tutions, until,  in  some  sad  way,  reminded  of  the  frailty 
of  all  living  things. 

As  I  went  in,  Arthur  rose,  looked  sharply  at  me, 
and  said,  "  Let  me  present  my  cousin,  Mr.  Hugh 
Wynne,  Colonel  Tarleton." 

I  bowed  to  the  officer,  who  lacked  the  politeness 
to  rise,  merely  sajdng,  ''Pleased  to  see  you,  INIr. 
Wynne." 

*'  We  were  talking,"  said  Artlnu',  "  when  you  came 
of  the  fight  at  the  river  with  the  queer  name— Bran- 
dy wine,  is  n't  it  ? " 

''  No,"  said  my  father ;  "  thou  art  mistaken,  and  I 
wished  to  ask  thee,  Arthur,  what  was  it  thou  wert 
saying.  We  had  ceased  to  speak  of  the  war.  Yes; 
it  was  of  thy  brother." 

"  What  of  thy  brother  ?"  said  I,  glad  of  this  opening. 

*'  Oh,  nothing,  except  Colonel  Tarleton  had  news 
he  was  not  so  well."  He  was  so  shrewd  as  to  tliiuk 
I  must  have  overheard  enough  to  make  it  useless  to 
lie  to  me.  A  lie,  he  used  to  say,  was  a  reserve  not 
to  be  called  into  service  except  when  all  eLse  failed. 

"Oh,  was  that  all?"  I  returned.  ''I  did  hear. 
Cousin  Arthur,  that  the  Wyncotc  estate  was  growing 
to  l>e  valuable  again  j  some  coal  or  iron  Imd  been 
found." 


264      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  So  my  mother  writes  me,"  said  Tarleton.  "  We 
are  old  friends  of  yoiu*  family." 

"  You  know,"  I  said,  "  we  are  the  elder  branch." 
I  was  bent  on  discovering,  if  possible,  the  cause  of  my 
cousin's  annoyance  whenever  Wyncotewas  mentioned. 

"  I  wish  it  were  true  about  our  getting  rich,"  said 
Arthur,  with  the  relaxed  look  about  the  jaw  I  had 
come  to  know  so  well ;  it  came  as  he  began  to  speak. 
"If  it  were  anything  but  idle  gossip,  Tarleton, 
what  would  it  profit  a  poor  devil  of  a  younger  son  ? 
They  did  find  coal,  but  it  came  to  nothing ;  and  in- 
deed I  learn  they  lost  money  in  the  end." 

"  I  have  so  heard,"  said  my  father,  in  a  dull  way. 
"  Who  was  it  told  me  ?   I  forget.   They  lost  money." 

I  looked  at  him  amazed.  Who  could  have  told  him 
but  Arthur,  and  whj'  ?  Until  a  year  back  his  mem- 
ory had  been  unfailing. 

I  saw  a  queer  look,  part  surprise,  part  puzzle,  go 
over  Tarleton's  face,  a  slight  frown  above,  as  slight 
a  smile  below.  I  fancy  he  meant  to  twit  my  cousin, 
for  he  said  to  me : 

"And  so  you  are  of  the  elder  branch,  Mr.  Hugh 
Wynne.  How  is  that,  Arthur  ?  How  did  the  elder 
branch  chance  to  lose  that  noble  old  house  1 " 

My  cousin  sat  rapping  with  his  fingers  on  the  table 
what  they  use(i  to  call  the  "  devil's  tattoo,"  regarding 
me  with  steady,  half -shut  eyes— a  too  frequent  and 
not  well-mannered  way  he  had,  and  one  I  much  dis- 
liked. He  said  notliing,  nor  had  he  a  chance,  for  I 
instantly  answered  the  colonel :  "  My  father  can  tell 
you." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      265 

"About  what,  Hugh?" 

"  About  how  we  lost  our  Welsh  estate." 

My  tailuT  at  this  lifted  his  great  bulk  upright  in 
tile  old  Peuu  chair,  aud  seemed  more  alive. 

"  It  is  Colonel  Tarletou  who  asks,  uot  I." 

''  It  is  an  old  story."  lie  spoke  quite  like  himself. 
"Our  eousiu  must  kuow  it  well.  My  father  suf- 
fered for  conscience'  sake,  aud,  being  a  Friend, 
would  pay  no  tithes.  For  this  he  was  east  into  jail 
in  Shrewsbury  Gate  House,  and  lay  there  a  yeai*, 
suffering  much  in  body,  but  at  peace,  it  may  siu'ely 
be  thought,  as  to  his  soul.  At  last  he  was  set  free 
on  condition  that  he  shoidd  leave  the  country." 

"  And  the  estate  ? "  asked  Tarleton. 

"  He  thought  little  of  that.  It  was  hea^ily  charged 
with  debt  made  by  his  father's  wild  ways.  I  believe, 
too,  there  was  some  agreement  with  the  officers  of 
the  crown  that  he  should  make  over  the  property  to 
his  next  brother,  who  had  none  of  his  scruples.  This 
was  in  1G70,  or  thereabouts.  A  legal  transfer  was 
made  to  my  uncle,  who,  I  think,  loved  my  father, 
and  understood  that,  being  set  in  his  waj's,  he  would 
defy  tlie  king's  authority  to  the  end.  And  so  — 
wisely  I  think  —the  overruling  providence  of  God 
brought  us  to  a  new  land,  where  we  have  greatly 
prospered." 

"And  that  is  all?"  said  the  colonel.  "TNHiat  a 
strange  story  !  Aud  so  you  are  WjTine  of  Wyncote, 
and  lost  it." 

''For  a  greater  gain,"  .'^aid  my  father.  ''My  son 
has  a  billy  fancy  for  the  old  place,  but  it  is  lost— lost 


266      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

—sold;  and  if  we  could  have  it  at  a  word,  it  would 
grieve  me  to  see  him  cast  in  his  lot  among  a  set  of 
drunken,  dicing,  hard-riding  squires— a  godless  set. 
It  will  never  be  if  I  can  help  it.  My  son  has  left  the 
creed  of  his  father  and  of  mine,  and  I  am  glad  that 
his  worldly  pride  cannot  be  further  tempted.  Dost 
thou  hear,  Hugh?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  awkward  silence.  My 
father  had  spoken  with  violence,  once  or  twice  strik- 
ing the  table  with  his  fist  until  the  glasses  rang. 
There  was  something  of  his  old  vehemence  in  his 
statement ;  but  as  a  rule,  however  abrupt  when  we 
were  alone,  before  strangers  he  was  as  civil  to  me  as 
to  others.  My  cousin,  I  thought,  looked  relieved  as 
my  father  went  on;  and,  ceasing  to  drum  on  the 
table,  he  quietly  filled  himself  a  glass  of  Hollands. 

I  was  puzzled.  What  interest  had  Arthur  to  lie 
about  the  value  of  Wyncote  if  it  was  irretrievably 
lost  to  us  ?  As  my  father  ended,  he  glanced  at  me 
with  more  or  less  of  his  old  keenness  of  look,  smihng 
a  little  as  he  regarded  me.  The  pause  which  came 
after  was  brief,  as  I  have  said;  for  my  reflections, 
such  as  they  were,  passed  swiftly  through  my  mind, 
and  were  as  complete  as  was  under  the  circumstances 
possible. 

"I  am  soiTy  for  you,"  said  Tarleton.  "An  old 
name  is  much,  but  one  likes  to  have  with  it  all  the 
memories  that  go  with  its  ancient  home." 

''That  is  true,"  said  I;  "and,  if  my  father  will 
pardon  me,  I  like  stUl  to  say  that  I  would  have 
"Wyncote  to-day  if  I  could." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       267 

"  Thou  canst  not,"  said  my  father.  *'  And  what  we 
cannot  have— what  God  ha«  willed  that  we  sluill  not 
have— it  were  wise  and  well  to  forget.  It  is  my  allair, 
and  none  of  thiue.  Wilt  thou  taste  some  of  my  newly 
come  Madeira,  Friend  Tarleton  ? " 

The  colonel  said  "  No,"'  and  shortly  after  left  us, 
my  cousin  going  with  him. 

Mv  father  sat  still  for  a  while,  and  then  said  as 
I  rose,  "  I  trust  to  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense. 
Thy  aunt  and  thy  mother  have  put  it  in  thy  foolish 
head.  I  will  have  no  more  of  it— no  more.  Dost 
thou  hear  ? " 

I  said  I  would  try  to  satisfy  him,  and  so  the  thing 
came  to  an  end. 

The  day  after  this  singular  talk,  which  so  much 
puzzled  me,  Arthur  said  at  breakfast  that  he  should 
be  pleased  to  go  with  me  on  the  river  for  white  perch. 
I  hesitated ;  but,  my  father  saying,  "  Certainly ;  he 
shall  go  with  thee.  I  do  not  need  him,"  I  returned 
that  I  woidd  be  ready  at  eleven. 

"We  pulled  over  toward  Petty's  Island,  and  when 
half-way  my  cousin,  who  was  steering,  and  had  been 
very  silent  for  him,  said : 

"  Let  her  diif t  a  bit ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

I  sat  still  and  listened. 

"  Wliy  do  not  you  join  our  army  ?  A  commission 
were  easily  had." 

I  rejjlied  that  he  knew  my  sentiments  well,  and 
that  liis  question  was  absurd. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  am  your  friend,  although  you 
do  not  think  so.     By  George !  were  I  you,  I  would 


268      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

be  on  one  side  or  the  oilier.  I  like  my  friends  to  do 
"what  is  manly  and  decisive."  '*  Holloa  !  "  thinks  I ; 
*'  has  Darthea  been  talking  ?  And  why  does  he,  an 
officer  of  the  king,  want  me  to  go  ? " 

"  I  shall  go  some  day,"  I  replied,  '^  but  when,  I  know 
not  yet.  It  seems  to  me  queer  counsel  to  give  a  good 
rebel.     When  does  Miss  Peniston  retm-n "? "  I  said. 

"  What  the  deuce  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Yes, 
she  is  coming  back,  of  course,  and  soon ;  but  why  do 
not  you  join  your  ai-my  ? " 

"Let  us  drop  that,"  I  said.  "There  are  many 
reasons ;  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  the  matter." 

"  Very  good,"  he  said ;  "  and,  Hugh,  you  heard  a 
heap  of  nonsense  last  night  about  Wyncote.  Tarle- 
ton  had  too  much  of  your  father's  rum-punch.  Your 
people  were  lucky  to  lose  the  old  place,  and  how  these 
tales  of  our  being  rich  arose  I  cannot  imagine.  Come 
and  see  us  some  day,  and  you  will  no  longer  envy  the 
lot  of  beggared  Welsh  squires." 

All  of  this  only  helped  the  more  to  make  me  dis- 
believe him ;  but  the  key  to  his  lies  I  had  not,  and  so 
I  merely  said  it  would  be  many  a  day  before  that 
could  happen. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  returned ;  "  but  who  knows  ?  The 
war  will  soon  be  over." 

"  When  will  Miss  Peniston  be  in  town  ? "  said  I. 

He  was  not  sui-e ;  but  said  I  put  it  in  his  mind  to 
say  something. 

"  Well  ? "  said  I,  on  my  guard. 

He  went  on :  "  I  am  a  frank  man,  Cousin  Hugh." 

At  times  he  was,  and  strangely  so ;  then  the  next 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker      269 

minute  he  would  be  indirect  or  lie  to  you.  The  mix- 
ture made  it  hard  to  uudorstaud  what  he  was  after, 

•■  I  trust,"  he  went  on,  '•  that  you  will  pardon  me 
if  I  say  that  in  Enjjrland  custom  does  not  sanction 
certain  freedoms  which  in  the  colonies  seem  to  be 
regarded  as  of  no  moment.  I  am  not  of  this  opinion. 
Miss  Peniston  is,  I  hope,  to  be  my  wife.  She  is 
young:,  impulsive,  and— well,  no  matter.  Some  men 
take  these  things  coolly ;  I  do  not.  I  am  sui'e  you 
will  have  the  good  sense  to  agree  vnth.  me.  When 
a  wonuin  is  pk'dged  to  a  man,  it  is  fit  that  she  should 
be  most  guarded  in  her  relations  with  other  men. 
I-" 

Here  I  broke  in,  "\Miat  on  earth  does  all  this 
mean  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Your  aunt  writes  now  and  then 
to  Miss  Peniston." 

"  Certainly,"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  she  says,  too,  things  concerning  you  and 
that  lady  which  ai'e  not  to  my  taste." 

'•Indeed?" 

"  I  have  been  so  honoured  as  to  see  some  of  tliese 
famous  ei)istles.  I  think  Darthea  is  pleased  to  tor- 
ment me  at  times ;  it  is  her  way,  as  you  may  happen 
to  know.  Also,  and  this  is  more  serious,  you  have 
yourself  written  to  Darthea." 

"I  have,  and  several  times.     Why  not?" 

''These  letter-s,"  he  wont  on,  ''she  has  refused  to 
show  to  me.  Now  I  want  to  .say— and  you  will  par- 
don me— that  I  permit  no  man  to  write  to  a  woman 
whom  I  am  to  marry  unless  I  do  not  object." 


270      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

''Well?"  I  said,  beginning  to  smile,  after  my 
unmanageable  habit. 

''Here  I  do  object." 

"  What  if  I  say  that,  so  long  as  Miss  Peniston  does 
not  seem  displeased,  I  care  not  one  farthing  who 
objects  ? " 

"  By  George  !  "  cried  he,  leaping  up  in  the  boat. 

"  Take  care ;  thou  wilt  upset  the  skiff." 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to." 

"  Nonsense !  I  can  smm  like  a  duck." 

"  This  is  no  trifle,  su*,"  he  returned.  "  I  wiU  allow 
no  man  to  take  the  liberty  you  insist  on.  It  amazes 
me  that  you  do  not  see  this  as  I  do.  I  am  sorry,  but 
I  warn  you  once  for  all  that  I—" 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  sir,"  I  broke  in. 

"  Pshaw !  nonsense !  I  am  a  guest  in  your  father's 
house.  I  have  thought  it  my  duty,  for  your  sake  and 
my  own,  to  say  what  I  have  said.  When  I  know 
that  you  have  again  disobeyed  my  reasonable  and 
most  earnest  wish,  I  shall  consider  how  to  deal  with 
the  matter.  I  have  been  forbearing  so  far,  but  I 
cannot  answer  for  the  future." 

"  Cousin  Arthur,"  I  replied,  "  this  seems  to  me  a 
silly  business,  in  which  we  have  both  lost  our  tem- 
pers. I  have  no  hope  that  Miss  Peniston  will  ever 
change  her  mind,  and  I  am  free  to  say  to  you  that  I 
think  it  useless  to  persist;  but  nevertheless—" 

"  Persist ! " 

"  I  said  '  persist.'  Until  Miss  Peniston  is  no  longer 
Miss  Peniston,  I  shall  not  cease  to  do  all  that  is  in 
my  power  to  make  her  change  her  mind." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      271 

"And  vou  call  that  honourable— the  conduct  of  a 
gentleman  and  a  kinsman  ? " 

•  Yes ;  I,  too,  can  be  frank.  I  would  rather  see 
her  marrv  any  other  man  than  yourself.  You  haye 
sought  to  injure  me,  why  I  shall  tell  you  at  my  o\nti 
time.  I  think  you  haye  been  deeeiyinij  all  of  us  as 
to  certain  mattei-s.  Oh,  wait !  I  must  ha^•e  my  say. 
If  you  were— what  I  do  not  think  you— a  straight- 
forward, truthful  man,  I  should  think  it  well,  and 
leaye  Miss  Penistou  to  what  seems  to  be  her  choice. 
You  have  been  frank,  and  so  am  I,  and  now  we  un- 
derstand each  other,  and— no;  I  heard  you  to  an 
end,  and  I  must  iusist  that  I  too  be  hoard.  I  am  not 
sorry  to  haye  had  this  talk.  If  I  did  not  care  for  her 
who  has  promised  you  her  hand,  I  shoidd  be  careless 
as  to  what  j'ou  are,  or  whether  you  have  been  an 
enemy  in  my  home  while  pretending  to  be  a  friend. 
As  it  is,  I  loye  her  too  well  not  to  do  all  I  can  to 
make  her  see  you  as  I  see  you ;  and  this,  although 
for  me  there  is  no  least  hope  of  ever  having  a  place 
in  her  lieart.  I  am  her  friend,  and  .shall  be,  and,  until 
she  forl)ids,  shall  claim  every  priNilege  which,  with 
our  simpler  manners,  the  name  of  friend  carries  with 
it.     I  trust  I  am  plain." 

"  Plain  ?  By  heavens  !  yes.  I  have  borne  much, 
but  now  I  have  only  to  add  that  I  never  yet  forgave 
an  insult.  You  would  be  wiser  to  have  a  care.  A 
man  who  never  yet  forgave  has  warned  you.  What 
I  want  I  get ;  and  what  I  get  I  keep." 

"  I  think,"  I  said,  "  that  we  will  go  ashore." 

"With  all  my  heart."     And  in  absolute  silence  I 


2/2      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

pulled  back.  At  the  slip  he  left  me  without  a  word, 
and  I  secured  the  boat  and  walked  away,  having 
found  ample  subject  for  reflection.  Nor  was  I  alto- 
gether discontented  at  my  cousin's  evident  jealousy. 

The  afternoon  of  this  memorable  day  I  rode  out 
on  poor  Lucy,  whom  I  had  put  for  safety  in  our  home 
stables.  I  went  out  High  to  Seventh  street,  and  up 
to  Race  street  road,  where  there  was  better  footing, 
as  it  had  been  kept  in  order  for  the  sport  wliich  made 
us  call  it  Race  street,  and  not  Sassafras,  which  is  its 
real  name.  I  was  brought  to  a  stand  about  Twelfth 
street,  then  only  an  ox-path,  by  the  bayonet  of  a  gren- 
adier, the  camps  l}"ing  about  this  point.  I  turned  to 
ride  back,  when  I  heard  a  voice  I  knew  crying : 

''Holloa,  Ml".  Wynne!  Are  you  stopped,  and 
why!" 

I  said  I  knew  no  reason,  but  woidd  go  south.  I 
was  out  for  a  ride,  and  had  no  special  errand. 

"  Come  with  me  then,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "  I  am 
now  the  engineer  in  charge  of  the  defences."  This 
was  my  Aunt  Gainor's  old  beau.  Captain  Montresor, 
now  a  colonel. 

"I  am  sorry  your  aunt  will  see  none  of  us, 
Mr.  Wynne.  If  agreeable  to  you,  we  will  ride 
through  the  lines." 

I  asked  nothing  better,  and  explaining,  awkwardly 
I  fear,  that  my  aunt  was  a  red-hot  Whig,  we  rode 
south  to  Spruce  street,  past  the  Bettering-house  at 
Spruce  and  Eleventh  streets,  where  the  troops  which 
had  entered  with  Lord  Cornwallis  were  mostly  sta- 
tioned.   The  main  army  lay  at  Germantown,  with  de- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      273 

taohments  below  the  cit}*,  on  the  east  and  west  banks 
of  the  JSeliuylkill,  to  watch  our  forts  at  Ked  Bank  and 
the  ishiuds  which  commanded  the  Dehiware  Kiver 
and  kept  the  Britisli  commander  from  drawing  sup- 
plies from  the  great  tleet  which  lay  helpless  below. 

As  we  went  by,  the  Grenadiers  were  drilling  on 
the  open  space  before  the  poorhouse.  I  expressed 
my  admiration  of  their  pointed  caps,  red,  with  silver 
front  plates,  their  spotless  white  leggings  and  blue- 
trimmed  scarlet  coats. 

"  Too  much  finery,  Mr.  Wynne.  These  are  a  king's 
puppets,  dressed  to  please  the  whim  of  royalty.  If 
all  kings  took  the  field,  we  should  have  less  of  this. 
Those  miserable  de\'ils  of  'Mr.  Morgan's  fought  as 
well  in  their  dirtv  skin  shirts,  and  can  kill  a  man  at 
murderous  distance  with  their  long  rifles  and  little 
bullets.  It  is  like  gambling  with  a  beggar.  He 
has  all  to  get,  and  nothing  to  lose  but  a  life  too 
wi-etched  to  make  it  worth  keeping." 

I  made  no  serious  reply,  and  we  rode  westward 
through  the  govenior's  woods  to  the  river.  As  we 
turned  into  an  open  space  to  escape  a  deep  mud-hole, 
Mr.  Montresor  said : 

*'It  was  here,  I  think,  you  and  Mr.  Warder  made 
yourselves  agreeable  to  two  of  our  people."  I  laughed, 
and  said  it  was  a  silly  business  and  quite  needless. 

"That,  I  believe,"  he  cried,  laughing,  "was  their 
opinion  somewhat  late.  They  were  the  jest  of  every 
regimental  mess  for  a  month,  and  we  were  inclined 
to  think  Mr.  Washington  had  better  raise  a  few 
regiments  of  Qiuikers.     Are  you  all  as  dangerous?" 


274      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  Oh,  worse,  worse,"  I  said.  ''  Jack  Warder  and  I 
are  only  half -fledged  specimens.  You  should  see  the 
old  fellows."  Thus  jesting,  we  rode  as  we  were  able 
until  we  reached  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  pick- 
eted on  both  shores,  but  on  the  west  side  not  below 
the  lower  ferry,  where  already  my  companion  was 
laying  a  floating  bridge  which  greatly  interested 
me. 

''  We  have  a  post  on  the  far  hill,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
afraid  to  Mr.  Hamilton's  annoyance.  Let  us  follow 
the  river." 

I  was  able  to  guide  him  along  an  ox-road,  and  past 
garden  patches  across  High  street,  to  the  upper  ferry 
at  Callowhill  street.  Here  he  pointed  out  to  me  the 
advantage  of  a  line  of  nine  forts  which  he  was  already 
building.  There  was  to  be  one  on  the  hill  we  call 
Fau'mount  to  command  the  upper  ferry.  Others 
were  to  be  set  along  to  the  north  of  Callowhill  street 
road  at  intervals  to  Cohocsink  Creek  and  the  Dela- 
ware. 

The  gi*eat  trees  I  loved  were  falling  fast  under  the 
axes  of  the  pioneers,  whom  I  thought  very  awkward 
at  the  business.  Farm-houses  were  being  torn  down, 
and  orchards  and  hedges  levelled,  while  the  unhappy 
owners  looked  on  in  mute  despair,  aiding  one  an- 
other to  remove  their  furnitui'e.  The  object  was  to 
leave  a  broad  space  to  north  of  the  forts,  that  an 
attacking  force  might  find  no  shelter.  About  an 
hundred  feet  from  the  blockhouses  was  to  be  an 
abatis  of  shai-pened  logs,  and  a  mass  of  brush  and 
trees,  through  which  to  move  would  be  difficult. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      275 

I  took  it  all  in,  and  frreedily.  The  colonel  no  doubt 
thouirht  me  an  intelligent  young  fellow,  and  was  kind 
enough  to  answer  all  my  questions.  He  may  later 
have  repeut^^d  his  freedom  of  speech.  And  now  I 
saw  the  reason  for  aU  this  piteous  ruin.  Compensa- 
tion was  promised  and  given,  I  heard,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  hard  to  be  thus  in  a  day  thrust  out  of  homes 
no  doubt  dear  to  these  sinii)le  folk.  We  went  past 
gardens  and  fields,  over  )»roken  fences,  all  in  the 
way  of  destruction.  Tape-lines  pegged  to  the  earth 
guided  the  engineers,  and  hundreds  of  negroes  were 
here  at  work.  Near  to  Cohocsink  Creek  we  met  the 
second  Miss  Chew,  riding  with  her  father.  He  was 
handsome  in  dark  velvet,  his  hair  clubbed  and  pow- 
dered beneath  a  flat  beaver  with  three  rolls,  and  at 
his  back  a  queue  tied  with  a  red  ribbon.  He  had 
remained  quietly  inactive  and  prudent,  and,  being 
liked,  ha<l  ))een  let  alone  by  our  own  party.  It  is  to 
bt*  feared  that  neither  he  nor  the  ril)bon  was  quite 
as  neutral  as  they  luid  been.  Miss  Margaret  looked 
her  l>est.  I  much  dislike  "  Peggy,"  by  which  name 
she  was  kno\vn  abnost  to  the  loss  of  that  fine,  full 
"Margaret,"  which  suited  better  her  handsome, 
uptilted  head  and  well-bred  look. 

On  the  right  side  rode  that  other  Margaret,  ^liss 
Shippen,  of  whom  awhile  back  I  .spoke,  but  then 
only  as  in  pretty  bud,  at  the  Woodlands.  It  was  a 
fair  young  rose  I  now  saw  })owiiig  in  the  saddle,  a 
woman  with  Itoth  charm  and  beauty.  Long  after, 
in  London,  and  in  less  merry  days,  she  was  described 
by  Colonel  Tarleton  as  past  question  the  handsomest 


276      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

woman  in  all  England.  I  fear,  too,  slie  was  the 
saddest. 

"  And  whei-e  have  you  kept  yourself,  Mr.  Wynne  f " 
she  asked.  "You  are  a  favourite  of  my  fathei^'s, 
you  know.   I  had  half  a  mind  not  to  speak  to  you." 

I  bowed,  and  made  some  gay  answer.  I  could 
not  well  explain  that  the  officers  who  filled  their 
houses  were  not  to  my  taste. 

''Let  me  present  you  to  Mr.  Andre,"  said  Mr. 
Shippen,  who  brought  up  the  rear. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  know  Mr.  Wynne,"  said  the 
officer.  "  We  met  at  Lancaster  when  I  was  a  pris- 
oner in  '76 ;  in  March,  was  it  not  ?  Mr.  Wynne  did 
me  a  most  kind  service,  Montresor.  I  owe  it  to  him 
that  I  came  to  know  that  loyal  gentleman,  Mr.  Cope, 
and  the  Yeates  people,  who  at  least  were  loyal  to  me. 
I  have  not  forgotten  it,  nor  ever  shall." 

I  said  it  was  a  very  small  service,  and  he  was  kind 
to  remember  it. 

"  You  may  well  afford  to  forget  it,  sir ;  I  shall  not," 
he  returned.  He  was  in  full  uniform ;  not  a  tall  man, 
but  finely  proportioned,  with  remarkably  regular 
features  and  a  clear  complexion  which  was  set  off 
to  advantage  by  powdered  haif  drawn  back  and  tied 
in  the  usual  ribboned  queue. 

We  rode  along  in  company,  happy  enough,  and 
chatting  as  we  went,  Mr.  Andre,  as  always,  the  life 
of  the  party.  He  had  the  gracious  frankness  of  a 
well-mannered  lad,  and,  as  I  recall  him,  seemed  far 
younger  than  his  years.  He  spoke  very  feelingly 
aside  to  me  of  young  Macpherson,  who  fell  at  Quebec 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      277 

He  himself  had  had  the  ill  luck  not  to  be  present 
when  that  gallant  assault  was  made.  He  spoke  of  us 
alwaj's  as  colonitils,  and  not  as  rebels ;  and  why  was  I 
not  in  the  ser\'ice  of  the  king,  or  perhaps  that  was  a 
needless  question  f 

I  told  him  frankly  that  I  hoped  before  long  to  be 
in  quite  other  service.  At  this  he  cried,  "  So,  so ! 
I  would  not  say  it  elsewhere.  Is  that  so?  'T  is  a 
pity,  ^Ir.  Wynne  •,  a  hopeless  cause,"  adding,  with  a 
laugh,  that  I  shoidd  not  find  it  very  easy  to  get  out 
of  the  city,  which  was  far  too  true.  I  said  there  were 
many  ways  to  go,  but  how  I  meant  to  leave  I  did  not 
yet  know.  After  I  got  out  I  would  tell  him.  We 
had  fallen  back  a  little  as  we  talked,  tlie  road  just 
here  not  allowing  three  to  ride  abreast. 

"  I  shall  ask  the  colonel  for  a  pass  to  join  our  army," 
I  said  merrily. 

''  I  would,"  said  he,  as  gay  as  I ;  "  but  I  fear  you 
and  ^listress  W\Tine  will  have  no  favours.  Pray 
tell  her  to  be  careful.     The  Tories  are  talking." 

"  Thanks,"  said  I,  as  we  drew  aside  to  let  pass  a 
.«:plendid  brigiule  of  Hessians,  fat  and  well  fed,  with 
shining  helmets. 

'*  We  are  drawing  in  a  lot  of  men  from  German- 
towii,"  said  Andrt'*,  "  l)ut  for  what  I  do  not  know. 
.^Vli,  here  com<'S  the  artillery !  " 

I  watched  tlx'm  as  wc  all  sat  in  saddle,  while  regi- 
ment after  regiment  passed,  the  women  admiring 
their  precision  and  soldierly  bearing.  For  my  part, 
I  kept  thinking  of  the  half-dad,  ill-armed  men  I  had 
seen  go  down  these  same  streets  a  httle  while  before. 


278      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  I  will  go,"  I  said  to  myself ;  and  in  a  moment  I  had 
made  one  of  those  decisive  resolutions  wliieli,  once 
made,  seem  to  control  me,  and  to  permit  no  future 
change  of  plan. 

By  this  time  we  were  come  to  the  bridge  over 
Cohocsiuk  Creek,  I  having  become  self-absorbed  and 
silent.  The  colonel  called  my  attention  to  his  having 
dammed  the  creek,  and  thus  flooded  the  low  meadows 
for  more  complete  defence.  I  said,  "Yes,  yes!" 
being  no  longer  interested. 

Mr.  Shippen  said, ''  We  will  cross  over  to  the  '  Rose 
of  Bath '  and  have  a  little  milk-punch  before  we  ride 
back."  This  was  an  inn  where,  in  the  garden,  was 
a  mineral  water  much  prescribed  by  Dr.  Kearsley. 
I  excused  myself,  however,  and,  pleading  an  engage- 
ment, rode  slowly  away. 

I  put  up  my  mare  in  my  aunt's  stable,  and  went 
at  once  into  her  parlour,  full  of  my  purpose. 

I  sat  down  and  told  her  both  the  talk  of  two  days 
before  with  Tarleton  and  my  cousin,  and  also  that  I 
had  had  in  my  boat. 

She  thought  I  had  been  foolishly  frank,  and  said, 
"  You  have  reason  to  be  careful,  Hugh.  That  man 
is  dangerous.  He  would  not  fight  you,  because  that 
would  put  an  end  to  his  relations  with  your  father. 
Clerk  Mason  tells  me  he  has  already  borrowed  two 
hundred  pounds  of  my  brother.  So  far  I  can  see," 
she  went  on  j  "  the  rest  is  dark— that  about  Wyncote, 
I  mean.  Darthea,  when  once  she  is  away,  begins  to 
criticise  him.  In  a  word,  Hugh,  I  think  he  has 
reason  to  be  jealous." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qiuiker       279 

«  O  Aunt  Gainor !  " 

"Yes.  She  does  not  answer  your  letters,  nor 
should  she,  but  she  answers  them  to  me,  the  minx ! 
a  good  sign,  sir." 

"  That  is  not  all.  aunt.  I  can  stand  it  no  longer. 
I  must  go ;  I  am  going.'' 

"  The  tu-my,  Hugh  ? " 

"  Yes ;  my  mind  is  made  up.  My  two  homes  are 
hardly  mine  any  longer.  Every  day  is  a  reproach. 
For  my  father  I  can  do  Uttle.  His  affairs  are  almost 
entii'ely  wound  up.  He  does  not  need  me.  The  old 
clerk  is  better." 

''  Will  it  be  hard  to  leave  me,  my  son  ? " 

"  You  know  it  will,"  said  I.  She  had  risen,  tall  and 
large,  her  eyes  soft  with  tears. 

"  You  must  go,"'  she  said,  "  and  may  God  protect 
and  keep  you.  I  shall  be  verj-  lonely,  Hugh.  But 
you  must  go.     I  have  long  seen  it." 

Upon  this,  I  begged  she  would  see  ray  father  often, 
and  give  me  news  of  him  and  of  Darthea  whenever 
occasion  served.  Then  she  told  me  Darthea  was  to 
return  to  the  city  in  two  days,  and  she  herself  would 
keep  in  mind  all  I  ha<l  wished  her  to  do.  After  tliis 
I  told  her  of  the  difficulties  I  should  meet  with,  and 
we  talked  them  over.  Presently  she  said,  "  Wait ;" 
then  left  the  room,  and,  coming  back,  gave  me  a 
sword  the  counterpart  of  Jack's. 

"  I  have  hatl  it  a  year,  sir.  Let  me  see,"  she  cried, 
and  would  have  me  put  it  on,  and  the  .sash,  and  the 
buff-and-blue  sword-knot.  After  this  she  put  a  great 
hand  on  each  shoulder  just  as  she  had  don<>  with 


28o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Jack,  and,  kissing  me,  said,  "  War  is  a  sad  thing,  but 
there  are  worse  things.  Be  true  to  the  old  name,  my 
son."  Nor  could  she  bide  it  a  moment  longer,  but 
hurried  out  with  her  lace  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
saying  as  she  went,  "  How  shall  I  bear  it !  How  shall 
I  bear  it !  " 

She  also  had  for  me  a  pair  of  silver-mounted  pistols, 
and  an  enamelled  locket  with  my  mothei*'s  ever  dear 
face  within,  done  for  her  when  my  mother  was 
in  England  by  the  famous  painter  of  miniatm-es, 
Mr.  Cosway. 

And  now  I  set  about  seeing  how  I  was  to  get  away. 
Our  own  forces  lay  at  Pennypacker's  Mills,  or  near 
by ;  but  this  I  did  not  know  until  later,  and  neither 
the  British  nor  I  were  very  sure  as  to  theh*  precise 
situation.  It  was  clear  that  I  must  go  afoot.  As 
I  walked  down  Second  street  with  this  on  my  mind, 
I  met  Colonel  Montresor  with  a  group  of  of&cers. 
He  stopped  me,  and,  after  civilly  presenting  me, 
-said: 

"  Harcourt  and  Johnston  "—this  latter  was  he  who 
later  married  the  saucy  Miss  Franks  and  her  fortune 
—  "  want  to  know  if  you  have  duck-shooting  here  on 
the  SchuylkiU." 

Suddenly,  as  I  stood,  I  saw  my  chance  and  how 
to  leave  the  town.  I  said,  "It  is  rather  early,  but 
there  are  a  few  ducks  in  the  river.  If  I  had  a  boat  I 
would  try  it  to-morrow,  and  then  perhaps,  if  I  find 
•any  sport,  one  of  you  would  join  me  the  day  after." 

"  Very  good,"  said  they,  as  well  pleased  as  I. 


Hui^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      281 

"And  the  boat?"  I  said. 

The  colonel  had  one,  a  rather  light  skiff,  he  told 
me.  He  used  it  to  go  up  and  down  to  look  at  the 
bridges  he  was  now  busily  laying.  When  I  asked 
for  its  use  the  next  day,  he  said  Yes,  if  I  would  send 
him  some  ducks ;  adding  that  I  should  need  a  pass. 
He  would  send  it  that  evening  by  a  sergeant,  and  an 
order  for  the  skiff,  which  lay  on  this  side  at  the  lower 
fen-y.  I  ihauked  him,  and  went  away  happy  in  the 
success  of  my  scheme. 

I  came  upon  Andre  just  after.  "  Not  gone  yet  ? " 
he  said. 

I  replied,  "  Not  yet ;  but  I  shall  get  away." 

lie  rejoined  that  he  would  not  like  to  bet  on  that, 
and  then  went  on  to  say  that  if  my  aunt  had  any 
trouble  as  to  the  officers  quartered  on  her,  would  she 
kindly  say  so.  The  Hessians  were  rough  people,  and 
an  exchange  might  be  arranged.  Gentlemen  of  his 
own  acquaintance  could  be  substituted.  He  himself 
was  in  Dr.  Franklin's  house.  It  was  full  of  books, 
and  good  ones  too. 

I  thanked  him,  but  said  I  fancied  she  was  Whig 
enough  to  like  the  Hessians  better. 

On  Second  street  I  bought  a  smock  shirt,  rough 
shoes,  and  coarse  knit  stockings,  as  well  as  a  good 
snapsack,  and,  rolling  them  up  securely,  left  them 
at  home  in  the  hay-loft.  My  sword  and  other  finery  I 
must  needs  leave  behind  me.  I  had  no  friends  to  say 
good-bye  to,  and  quite  late  in  the  evening  I  merely 
ran  in  and  ki.ssed  my  aunt,  and  received  eight  hun- 


282      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

dred  pounds  in  English  notes,  her  offering  to  the 
cause,  which  I  was  to  deliver  to  the  general.  Her 
gift  to  me  was  one  hundred  pounds  in  gold,  just 
what  she  gave  to  my  Jack.  The  larger  sum  she  had 
put  aside  by  degrees.  It  embarrassed  me,  but  to 
refuse  it  would  have  hurt  her. 

I  carefully  packed  my  snapsack,  putting  the  gold 
in  bags  at  the  bottom,  and  covering  it  with  the  flan-  | 

nel  shirts  and  extra  shoes  which  made  up  my  outfit.  * 

I  could  not  resist  taking  my  pistols,  as  I  knew  that 
to  provide  myself  as  well  in  camp  would  not  be  pos- 
sible. The  bank-bills  I  concealed  in  my  long  stock- 
ings, and  would  gladly  have  been  without  them  had 
I  not  seen  how  greatly  this  would  disappoint  my  aunt. 
She  counted,  and  wisely,  on  their  insuring  me  a  more 
than  favourable  reception.  Lastly,  I  got  me  a  small 
compass  and  some  tobacco  for  Jack. 

It  must  be  hard  for  you,  in  this  happier  day,  when 
it  is  easy  to  get  with  speed  anywhere  on  swift  and 
well-horsed  coaches,  to  imagine  what  even  a  smaU 
journey  of  a  day  or  two  meant  for  us.  Men  who 
rode  carried  horseshoes  and  nails.  Those  who  drove 
had  in  the  carriage  ropes  and  a  box  of  tools  for  re- 
pairs. I  was  perhaps  better  off  than  some  who  drove 
or  rode  in  those  days,  for  afoot  one  cannot  be  stalled, 
nor  easily  lose  a  shoe,  although  l)etween  Philadelphia 
and  Darby  I  have  known  it  to  happen. 

I  knew  the  country  I  was  to  travel,  and  up  to  a 
point  knew  it  well ;  beyond  that  I  must  trust  to  good 
fortune.  Early  in  the  evening  came  a  sergeant  with 
the  promised  order  for  the  boat,  and  a  pass  signed 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      25^  j 

by  Sir  William  Howe's  adjutant.  At  ten  I  bade  my 
father  good-uight  and  went  upstaii'S,  where  I  wrote 
to  hini,  and  melosed  the  note  in  one  for  my  aunt. 
Tliis  I  gave  to  Tom,  our  coachman,  with  strict  orders 
to  deliver  it  late  the  next  day.  I  had  no  wish  that 
bv  any  accident  it  should  too  earlv  l)etrav  mv  true 
purpose.  My  gun  I  ostentatiously  cleaned  in  the  late 
afternoon,  and  set  in  the  hall. 

No  one  but  my  aunt  had  the  least  suspicion  of 
what  I  was  in  act  to  do.  At  last  I  sat  down  and 
carefully  considered  my  plan,  and  my  best  and  most 
rapid  way  of  reaching  the  army.  To  go  through 
Germantown  and  Chestnut  Hill  would  have  been  the 
direct  route,  for  to  a  surety  our  army  lay  somewhere 
nigh  to  Worcester,  which  was  in  the  county  of  Phil- 
adelphia, although  of  late  years  I  believe  in  Mont- 
gomery. To  go  tliis  plain  road  would  have  taken  me 
through  the  pickets,  and  wliere  lay  on  guard  the  chief 
of  the  British  army.  This  would,  of  course,  be  full  of 
needless  risks.  It  remained  to  consider  the  Ion  ger  road. 
This  led  me  down  the  river  to  a  point  where  I  must 
leave  it,  shoulder  my  snapsack,  and  trudge  down  the 
Darby  road,  or  between  it  and  the  river.  Somewhere 
I  must  cross  the  highway  and  strike  across-country 
as  I  could  to  the  Schuylkill  River,  and  there  find 
means  to  get  over  at  one  of  the  fords.  Once  well 
away  from  the  main  road  to  Darby  and  Wilming- 
ton, I  should  be,  I  thought,  safe.  After  crossing 
the  Schuylkill  I  hoped  to  get  news  which  would 
guide  me.  I  hardly  thought  it  likely  that  the 
English  who  lay  at  Germantown  and  Mount  Airy 


284      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

would  picket  beyond  the  banks  of  the  Wissahickou. 
I  might  have  to  look  out  for  foraging  English  west 
of  the  Schuylkill,  but  this  I  must  chance. 

I  was  about  to  leave  home,  perhaps  forever,  but  I 
never  in  my  life  went  to  bed  with  a  more  satisfied 
heart  than  I  bore  that  night. 


XVI 


i 

|T  break  of  day  I  woke,  and,  stealing:  down- 
stall's,  took  ^in,  powder-horn,  and  shot, 
and  in  the  stable  loft  pnt  the  ainniunition 
in  the  top  of  my  snapsao.k  ;  then,  quiekly 
chanirint;  7iiy  elothes,  concealed  those  I 
had  put  olf  under  tlie  hay,  and  so  set  out. 

The  towni  wa»s  all  asleep,  and  I  saw  no  one  until  I 
passed  the  Bettering-house,  and  the  Grenadiers  elean- 
inp  their  gruns,  and  powdering  their  queues  and  liair, 
and  thence  pushed  on  to  the  river.  The  lower  feiTy, 
known  also  as  Gray's,  lay  just  a  little  south  of  where 
the  Woodlands,  Mr.  Andrew  Hainilton's  house,  stood 
among  trees  high  above  the  quiet  river. 

A  few  tents  and  a  squad  of  sleepy  men  were  at  the 
ferr\'.  I  lianded  my  order  and  pass  to  the  sergeant, 
who  looked  me  over  as  if  he  thought  it  odd  that  a 
man  of  my  cltiss  should  be  so  equipped  to  shoot  ducks. 
However,  he  read  my  ])ass  and  the  order  for  the  boat, 
pushed  the  skiff  into  the  water,  and  ju'oposed,  as  he 
liftc'd  my  sna])sa<;k,  to  let  one  of  his  men  row  me.  I 
said  No  ;  I  must  drift  or  paddle  on  to  the  ducks,  and 
would  go  aloiH'.  Thanking  him,  I  pushed  out  into 
the  stream.  He  wished  me  good  luck,  and  pocketed 
my  shilling. 

285 


286      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

— ■  —  I  ,  1^ 

It  was  now  just  sunrise.  I  paddled  swiftly  down, 
stream.  Not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  ferry  I  saw 
ducks  on  tlie  east  shore,  and,  having  loaded,  paddled 
over  to  Rambo's  Rock,  and  was  lucky  enough  to  get 
two  ducks  at  a  shot.  Recrossing,  I  killed  two  more 
in  succession,  and  then  pushed  on,  keeping  among 
the  reeds  of  the  west  bank.  As  I  passed  Bartram's 
famous  garden,  I  saw  his  son  near  the  river,  busy, 
as  usual,  with  his  innocent  flowers. 

A  half-mile  below  I  perceived,  far  back  of  the 
shore,  a  few  redcoats.  Annoyed  no  little,— for  here 
I  meant  to  land,— I  turned  the  boat,  still  hidden  by 
the  tall  reeds,  and  soon  di*ew  up  the  skiff  at  Bartram's, 
where,  taking  gun  and  snapsack,  I  went  up  the  slope. 
I  found  Mr.  William  Bartram  standing  under  a  fine 
cypress  his  father  had  fetched  as  a  slip  from  Florida 
in  1731.  He  was  used  to  see  me  on  the  river,  but 
looked  at  my  odd  costume  with  as  much  curiosity  as 
the  sergeant  had  done.  He  told  me  his  father  had 
died  but  ten  days  before,  for  which  I  felt  sorry,  since, 
except  by  Friends,  who  had  disowned  the  good  botan- 
ist, he  was  held  in  general  esteem.  I  hastily  but 
frankly  told  jMr.  Bartram  my  errand.     He  said : 

"  Come  to  the  house.  A  company  or  two  has  just 
now  passed  to  relieve  the  lower  fort." 

After  I  had  a  glass  of  milk,  and  good  store  of 
bread  and  butter,  I  asked  him  to  accept  my  gun,  and 
that  he  would  do  me  the  kindness  to  return  the  skiff, 
and  with  it  to  forward  a  note,  for  the  writing  of 
which  Mrs.  Bartram  gave  me  quill  and  paper. 

I  wrote : 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      287 

'■  Mr.  Hugh  W\-iine  presents  his  compliments  to 
Mr.  Montresor,  and  retin-ns  his  skiff.  He  desires  Mr. 
Montresor  to  accept  two  brace  c)f  ducks,  and  begs  to 
exjiress  his  sincere  thanks  for  tlie  pass,  -whieh  enabled 
3Ir.  Wynne  to  make  with  comfort  his  way  to  the  army. 
Mr.  Wynne  trusts  at  some  time  to  be  able  to  show 
his  gratitude  for  this  favour,  and  meanwhile  he  re- 
mains ^Ir.  Montresor's  obedient,  humble  servant. 

"October  1,  1777. 

"  Mr.  Wynne's  most  particular  compliments  to  Mr. 
Andre.  It  proved  easier  to  escape  than  Mr.  Andr6 
thought." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  to  think  of  the  good  colo- 
nel's face  when  he  should  read  this  letter.  I  glanced 
at  the  arms  over  the  fireplace,  thanked  the  good 
people  wamily,  and,  as  I  went  out,  looked  back  at 
the  familiar  words  old  John  Bartram  set  over  the 
door  in  1770 : 

T  is  God  alone,  Almighty  Lord, 
The  Holy  One  by  me  adored. 

It  seemed  the  last  of  home  and  its  associations.  I 
turned  away,  pa*;sed  through  the  gi-ounds,  which  ex- 
tended up  to  the  Darby  road,  and,  after  a  careful  look 
aVjout  me,  moved  rapidly  southward.  Here  and  there 
were  farm-houses  between  spurs  of  the  broken  forest 
which,  with  its  many  farms,  stretched  far  to  west- 
ward.    I  met  no  one. 

I  knew  there  was  a  picket  at  the  Blue  Bell  Inn, 
and  .so,  before  Hearing  it,  I  struck  into  a  W(K)dlan(l, 
and,  avoiding  the  farms,  kept  to  the  northwest  until 


288      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  came  on  to  a  road  which  I  saw  at  once  to  be  Gray's 
Lane.  Unused  to  guiding-  myself  by  compass,  I  had 
again  gotten  dangerously  near  to  the  river.  I  pushed 
up  the  lane  to  the  west,  and  after  half  an  hour  came 
upon  a  small  hamlet,  where  I  saw  an  open  forge  and 
a  sturdy  smith  at  work.  In  a  moment  I  recognised 
my  old  master,  Lowiy,  the  farrier.  I  asked  the  way 
across- country  to  the  Schuylkill.  He  stood  a  little, 
resting  on  his  hammer,  not  in  the  least  remembering 
me.  He  said  it  was  difficult.  I  must  take  certain 
country  lanes  until  I  got  into  the  Lancaster  road, 
and  so  on. 

I  did  not  wish  to  get  into  the  main  highway,  where 
foragers  or  outlying  parties  might  see  fit  to  be  too 
curious,  I  said  at  last,  '^  Dost  not  thou  know  thy  old 
prentice,  Hugh  Wynne  ? " 

I  felt  snre  of  my  man,  as  he  had  been  one  of  the 
Sons  of  Liberty,  and  had  fallen  out  with  Friends  in 
consequence,  so  that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  relate  my 
whole  story.  He  was  pleased  to  see  me,  and  bade  me 
enter  and  see  his  wife.  As  we  stood  consulting,  a 
man  cried  out  at  the  door : 

"  Here  are  more  Hessians."  And  as  he  spoke  we 
heard  the  notes  of  a  bugle. 

''  Put  me  somewhere,"  I  said,  "  and  quick." 

"No,"  he  cried.  "Here,  set  your  snapsack  back 
of  this  forge.  Put  on  this  leather  apron.  Smudge 
your  face  and  hands." 

It  took  me  but  a  minute,  and  here  I  was,  grimy 
and  black,  a  smith  again,  with  my  sack  hid  under  a 
lot  of  old  iron  and  a  broken  bellows. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      289 

As  they  rode  up— some  two  dozen  yagers— I  let 
fall  the  bellows  handle,  at  which  mv  master  had  set 
me  to  work,  and  went  out  to  the  doorway.  There, 
not  at  all  to  my  satisfaction,  I  saw  the  small  Hessian, 
Captain  von  Heiser,  our  third  and  least  pleasant 
boai'dei*,  the  aide  of  General  Knypluiusen.  Worse 
stiD,  he  was  on  Lucy.  It  was  long  before  I  knew 
how  this  came  to  pass.  Tht-y  hud  two  waggons,  and, 
amidst  the  lamentations  of  the  hamlet,  took  chickens, 
pigs,  and  gi"idn,  leaving  orders  on  the  paymaster, 
which,  I  am  told,  were  sciiipulously  honoured. 

Two  horses  needed  shoeing  at  once,  and  then  I  was 
told  Lucy  had  a  loose  shoe,  and  my  master  called  me 
a  lazy  dog,  and  bid  me  qidt  staring  or  I  would  get  a 
strapping,  and  to  see  to  the  gentleman's  mare,  and 
that  in  a  hurry.  It  was  clear  the  dear  thing  knew 
me ;  for  she  j)ut  her  nose  down  to  my  side  to  get  the 
apples  I  hked  to  keep  for  her  in  my  side  pockets.  I 
really  thought  she  would  betray  me,  so  clearly  did 
she  seem  to  me  to  understand  that  here  was  a  friend 
she  knew.  A  wild  thought  came  over  me  to  moimt 
her  and  ride  for  my  life.  No  horse  there  of  the  heavy 
Brandenburgers  could  liave  kept  near  her.  It  would 
have  been  madness,  of  course,  and  so  I  took  my  six- 
pence with  a  toucli  of  my  felt  hat,  and  saw  my  dear  Lucy 
disappear  in  a  cloud  of  du.st,  riding  toward  the  town. 

"That  was  a  big  risk  for  thee,"  said  the  smitli, 
wiping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve. 
"  I  will  mount  and  ride  with  thee  across-country 
through  the  Welsh  Barony.  There  thou  wilt  not 
be  far  from  the  river.  It  is  a  good  ten-mile  business." 


290      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

After  a  little,  when  I  had  had  some  milk  and  rum, 
the  horses  were  saddled,  and  we  crossed  by  an  ox- 
road  through  the  forest  past  the  settlement  of  Card- 
ington,  and  then  forded  Cobb's  Creek.  A  cross-road 
carried  us  into  the  Haverford  road,  and  so  on  by 
wood- ways  to  the  old  "Welsh  farms  beyond  Merion. 

We  met  no  one  on  the  wskj  save  a  farmer  or  two, 
and  here,  being  near  to  the  Schuylkill,  my  old  master 
farrier  took  leave  of  me  at  the  farm  of  Edward  Mas- 
ters, which  lay  in  our  way,  and  commended  me  to 
the  care  of  this  good  Free  Quaker. 

There  I  was  well  fed,  and  told  I  need  to  look  out 
only  on  this  side  the  river  for  Tories.  They  were  worse 
than  Hessianers,  he  said,  and  robbed  like  highway- 
men. In  fact,  already  the  Tories  who  came  confidently 
back  with  the  British  army  had  become  a  terror  to  all 
peaceful  folk  between  Sweedsboro  and  our  own  city. 
Their  bands  acted  under  royal  commissions,  some  as 
honest  soldiers,  but  some  as  the  enemies  of  any  who 
owned  a  cow  or  a  bai'rel  of  flour,  or  from  whom, 
under  torture,  could  be  wrested  a  guinea.  All  who 
were  thus  organised  came  at  length  to  be  dreaded, 
and  this  whether  they  were  bad  or  better.  Friend 
Masters  had  suffered  within  the  week,  but,  once  over 
the  Schuylkill,  he  assured  me,  there  need  be  no  fear, 
as  our  own  partisans  and  foragers  were  so  active  to 
the  north  of  the  stream  as  to  make  it  perilous  for 
Tories. 

With  this  caution,  my  Quaker  friend  went  with 
me  a  mile,  and  set  me  on  a  wood  path.  I  must  be 
put  over  at  Hagy's  Ford,  he  feared,  as  the  river  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      291 

in  AockI  and  too  hi«rh  for  a  horse  to  wade ;  n<^r  was 
it  nuu'h  better  at  Youiig-'s  Ford  above.  Finally  he 
sjiid,  '*  The  ferryman  ii>  Peter  iSkiuner,  and  as  bad  as 
the  Jereey  Tories  of  that  name.  If  thou  dost  perceive 
hiiu  to  tiilk  Friends'  hingruage  in  reply  to  thy  own 
tidk,  thou  wilt  do  wi-11  to  doubt  what  he  ma}'  tell  thee. 
He  is  not  of  our  society.  He  cannot  even  so  speak 
as  that  it  will  deceive.  Hereabouts  it  is  thought  he 
is  in  league  with  Fitz.''  I  asked  who  was  Fitz.  He 
was  one,  I  was  told,  who  had  received  some  lashes 
when  a  pnvat«  in  our  army,  and  had  deserted.  The 
British,  discovering  his  capacity,  now  used  him  as  a 
forager ;  but  he  did  not  stop  at  hen-roosts. 

With  this  added  warning,  I  went  on,  keeping  north 
imtil  I  came  to  the  Rock  road,  by  no  means  mis- 
named, and  so  through  Merion  Square  to  Hagy's  Ford 
Lane  and  the  descent  to  the  river.  I  saw  few  people 
on  the  way.  The  stream  was  in  a  freshet,  and  not  to 
be  waded.  My  ferryman  was  caulking  a  dory.   I  said  : 

"Wilt  thou  set  me  across,  friend,  and  at  what 
charge  ? " 

To  this  he  replied,  "  WTiere  is  thee  bound  ? " 

I  said,  "  To  White  Marsh." 

"  Thee  is  not  of  these  parts." 

"No." 

He  was  speaking  the  vile  tongue  which  now  all 
but  educated  Friends  speak,  and  even  some  of  these ; 
but  at  that  time  it  was  s])oken  only  by  the  vulgar. 

"  It  will  cost  thee  two  shillings." 

"  Too  much,"  said  I ;  "  but  thou  hast  me  caught 
I  must  over,  and  that  soon." 


292      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

He  was  long  about  getting  ready,  and  now  and 
then  looked  steadily  across  the  stream ;  but  as  to  this 
I  was  not  troubled,  as  I  knew  that,  once  beyond  it, 
I  was  out  of  danger. 

I  paid  my  fare,  and  left  him  looking  after  me  up 
the  deep  cut  which  led  to  the  more  level  uplands. 
Whistling  gaily,  and  without  suspicion,  I  won  the 
hilltop  by  what  I  think  they  called  Ship  Lane. 

Glad  to  be  over  Schuylkill  and  out  of  the  way  of 
risks,  I  sat  down  by  the  roadside  at  the  top  of  the 
ascent.  The  forest  was  dense  with  underbrush  on 
either  side,  and  the  hickories,  and  below  them  the 
sumachs,  were  already  rich  with  the  red  and  gold  of 
autumn.  Being  rather  tired,  I  remained  at  rest  at 
least  for  a  haK-hour  in  much  comfort  of  body  and 
mind.  I  had  been  strongly  urged  by  my  love  for 
Darthea  to  await  her  coming ;  but  decisions  are  and 
were  with  me  despotic,  and,  once  I  was  of  a  mind  to 
go,  not  even  Darthea  could  keep  me.  Yet  to  leave 
her  to  my  cousin  and  his  wiles  I  hated.  The  more 
I  discussed  him  in  the  council  of  my  own  thoughts, 
the  more  I  was  at  a  loss.  His  evident  jealousy  of 
one  so  much  younger  did  seem  to  me,  as  it  did  to  my 
aunt,  singular.  And  why  should  he  wish  me  to  be 
away,  as  clearly  he  did  ?  and  why  also  malign  me  to 
my  father  ?  I  smiled  to  think  I  was  where  his  malice 
could  do  me  no  harm,  and,  rising,  pulled  my  snapsack 
straps  up  on  my  shoulders,  and  set  my  face  to  the 
east. 

Of  a  sudden  I  heard  to  left,  "  Halt,  there ! "  I 
saw  a  long  rifle  covering  me,  and  above  the  brush 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Uuaker      293 

a  man's  face.  Tlien  stepped  out  to  right,  as  I  obeyed 
the  order,  a  fellow  in  buckskin  shirt  and  leggings, 
with  a  pistol.  I  cried  out,  "  I  surrender ;  "  for  what 
else  could  I  do  ?  Instantly  a  dozen  men,  iill  armed, 
were  in  the  roa<l.  and  an  ill-looking  lot  they  were. 
The  leader,  a  coarse  ft-llow,  was  short  and  red  of 
face,  and  much  pimpled,  lie  had  hair  half  a  foot 
long,  and  a  beard  such  as  none  woi-e  in  those  days. 

I  had  but  time  to  say  meekly,  "Why  dost  thou 
stop  me,  friend  ? ''  when  he  jerked  off  my  sack  and, 
plunging  a  hand  inside,  jiulled  out  a  pistol. 

*•  A  pretty  Quaker !  Here,"  and  he  put  back  the 
pi.stol,  crying,  as  the  men  laughed,  "sergeant,  strap 
this  on  your  back.  Quick  !  fet<jh  out  the  horses ;  we 
will  look  him  over  later.  Up  with  him  behind  Joe ! 
Quick— a  girth !  We  have  no  time  to  waste.  A 
darned  rebel  spy !  No  doubt  Sir  William  may  like 
to  have  him.'' 

In  truth,  no  time  was  lost  nor  any  ceremony  used, 
and  here  was  I  strapped  to  the  waist  of  a  sturdy 
trooper,  behind  whom  I  was  set  on  a  big-boned  roan 
hoi*se,  and  on  my  way  home  again. 

"Whi<-h  way,  Cai)tain  Fitz?"  said  the  sergeant. 
"  The  ford  is  high.*'  In  a  moment  we  were  away,  in 
all,  as  1  uottid,  about  a  score. 

The  fauious  Tory  chief— he  was  no  better  than 
a  bold  thief— mad*'  no  reply,  but  rode  northwest 
with  his  following  for  a  Iowcm-  ford,  as  I  fancied. 
He  went  at  speed  through  the  open  pino  forest, 
I.  my  hands  bfing  free,  holding  on  to  my  man  as 
well  as  1  could,  and,  as  you  may  suppose,  not  \ery 


294      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

happy.  A  mile  away  we  came  out  on  a  broad  road. 
Here  the  captain  hesitated,  and  of  a  sudden  turned 
to  left  toward  the  river,  crying  loudly,  with  an  oath, 
"  Follow  me ! "     The  cause  was  plain. 

Some  twenty  troopers  came  out  into  the  road  not 
a  hundred  yards  distant,  and  instantly  rode  down  on 
us  at  a  run.  Before  we  could  get  as  swift  a  pace, 
they  were  close  upon  us ;  and  then  it  was  a  wild  and 
perilous  race  downhill  for  the  river,  with  yells,  curses, 
and  pistol-balls  flying,  I  as  helpless,  meanwhile,  as 
a  child.  The  big  roan  kept  weU  up  to  the  front 
near  the  captain.  Looking  back,  through  dust  and 
smoke,  I  saw  our  pursuers  were  better  horsed  and 
were  gaining.  A  man  near  me  dropped,  and  a  horse 
went  down.  With  my  left  hand  I  caught  hold  of  the 
strap  which  fastened  me  to  the  rascal  in  the  saddle. 
He  was  riding  for  life,  and  too  scared  to  take  note  of 
the  act.  I  gave  the  buckle  a  quick  jerk,  and  it  came 
loose,  and  the  strap  feU.  I  clutched  the  man  by  the 
throat  with  my  right  hand,  and  squeezed  his  gullet 
with  a  death-grip.  He  made  with  his  right  hand  for  a 
holster  pistol,  losing  his  stirrups,  and  kicking  as 
if  in  a  fit.  I  only  tightened  my  grip,  and  fetched 
him  a  crack  under  the  left  ear  with  my  unengaged 
hand.  He  was  reehng  in  the  saddle  when,  at  this 
instant,  I  was  aware  of  a  horseman  on  my  right.  I 
saw  a  sabre  gleam  in  au'  above  us,  and,  letting  go 
my  scamp's  throat,  I  ducked  quickly  below  his  left 
shoulder  as  I  swung  him  to  left,  meaning  to  chance 
a  fall.  He  had,  I  fancy,  some  notion  of  his  peril,  for 
he  put  up  his  hand  and  bent  forward.    I  saw  the 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      295 

flai»h  of  a  blade,  and,  my  captor's  head  falliiifr  for- 
^\"ard,  a  great  spout  of  blood  shot  l^aok  into  my  fju'e, 
as  the  pair  of  us  tumbled  togetlier  headlong  from 
his  horse.  I  was  dimly  conscious  of  yells,  oaths,  a 
liorse  leaping  over  me,  and  for  a  few  seconds  knew 
no  more.  Then  I  sat  up,  wiped  the  blood  away,  and 
Siiw  what  had  hap])ened. 

The  trooper  lav  across  me  dead,  his  head  nearly 
severed  from  the  trunk,  and  spouting  great  jets  of 
blood.  A  half-dozen  dead  or  wounded  wtTc  scattered 
along  tlie  road.  Not  a  rod  away  was  the  sergeant 
who  had  my  sack  pinned  under  his  horse,  and  far 
ahead,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  that  terrible  swordsman 
riding  hard  after  the  bandit.  Fitz,  well  mounted,  got 
off,  I  may  add.  and,  vrith  three  or  four,  swam  the 
river,  living  to  be  hanged,  as  he  well  deserved. 

By  the  time  I  was  up  and  staggering  forward,  bent 
on  recovering  my  sack,  the  leader,  who  had  given  up 
the  chase,  rode  toward  me.  I  must  have  been  a  queer 
and  horrid  figure.  I  was  literally  covered  with  blood 
and  mud.  Tlie  blood  was  everywhere, — in  my  hair, 
over  ray  face,  and  down  my  neck,— but  I  wanted  my 
precious  siick. 

"  Halt !  "  he  cried  out.  "  Here,  corporal,  tie  this 
fellow." 

"  Pardon  me,"  .said  I,  now  quite  myself.  "  I  was 
the  pri.sr)ner  of  these  rji.scahi." 

"  Indeed  ?    Your  name  t " 

"  Hugh  Wynne." 

"Wliere  from?" 

"  From  the  city." 


» 


296      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"Where  to?" 

"  To  join  the  army." 

"  Your  business  ?    What  are  you  ?  " 

"  Gentleman." 

"  Good  heavens !  you  are  a  queer  one !  We  shall 
see.  Are  you  hurt  ?  No  ?  Great  Csesar !  you  are 
an  awful  sight !  " 

"I  was  tied  to  that  fellow  you  disposed  of,  and 
with  your  permission  I  will  get  my  snapsack  3'^onder." 

"  Good ;  get  it.  Go  with  him,  corporal,  and  keep 
an  eye  on  him." 

In  a  half -hour  the  dead  were  stripped  and  pitched 
aside,  the  wounded  cared  for  in  haste,  and  the  horses 
caught. 

"  Can  you  ride  ? "  said  my  captor.  "  By  George, 
you  must ! " 

"  Yes,  I  can  ride." 

"  Then  up  with  you.     Give  him  a  leg." 

I  wanted  none,  and  was  up  in  a  moment  on  the 
bare  back  of  a  big  farm  mare ;  their  errand  had  been, 
I  learned,  the  purchase  of  horses.  The  captain  bade 
me  ride  with  him,  and,  turning  north,  we  rode  away, 
while  the  big  brute  imder  me  jolted  my  sore  bones. 

"And  now,"  said  the  captain,  "let  me  hear,  Mr. 
Wynne,  what  you  have  to  say.  Take  a  pull  at  my 
flask." 

I  did  so,  and  went  on  to  relate  my  adventures 
briefly— the  duck-shooting,  which  much  amused  him, 
the  escape  at  the  forge,  and  what  else  seemed  to  be 
needed  to  set  myseK  right.  He  looked  me  over  again 
keenly. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      297 

"You  had  a  close  thing  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;  ''  yo\i  ai*e  a  terrible  swordsman,  and 
a  good  one,  if  you  will  pardon  me." 

"  I  meant  to  cut  liim  on  the  liead,  but  he  put  his 
neck  where  his  heatl  should  have  been.  There  is 
one  rascal  the  less ;  but  I  missed  the  leader.  Hang 
him!" 

"  He  will  take  care  of  that,"  said  I. 

Then  my  companion  sjiid  I  must  join  his  troop, 
ajul  would  I  excuse  his  rough  dealing  with  me  ? 

I  deehired  myself  well  content,  and  explained  as  to 
his  otYer  that  I  was  much  obliged,  and  would  think 
it  over ;  but  that  I  desired  fii'st  to  see  the  army,  and 
to  find  my  fi'iend,  Captain  Warder,  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania line. 

"  Yes ;  a  stout  man  and  dark  ?  " 

"  No ;  slight,  well  built,  a  blond." 

"  Good ;  I  know  him.  I  was  testing  your  tale,  Mr. 
Wynne.  One  has  need  to  be  careful  in  these  times." 
For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent,  and  then  asked 
shaq)ly,  "  "VMiere  did  you  cross  T " 

I  told  him. 

"And  are  there  any  outlying  pickets  above  the 
npper  terry  on  the  west  bank  f " 

I  thought  not,  and  went  on  to  tell  of  the  bridging 
of  the  river,  of  the  lines  of  fort.s,  and  of  the  positions 
held  in  the  city  by  the  Grenadiers  and  the  High- 
landers. A  large  part  of  tin*  army,  I  said,  was  being 
withdrawn  from  Gcrniantown,  I  supposed  with  a 
view  to  attack  the  forts  beh)\\'  the  city. 

"^^^iat  you  say  is  vahiable,  Mr.  Wynne."   And  lie 


298      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

quickened  the  pace  with  an  order,  and  pushed  on  at 
speed. 

It  seemed  to  me  time  to  know  into  whose  company 
I  had  fallen,  and  who  was  the  hardy  and  decisive 
rider  at  my  side. 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  to  ask  with  what  command 
I  am  ? " 

"  Certainly.  I  am  Allan  McLane,  at  your  service. 
I  will  talk  to  you  later ;  now  I  want  to  think  over 
what  you  have  told  me.  I  tried  to  get  into  the  city 
last  week,  dressed  as  an  old  woman ;  they  took  my 
eggs— Lord,  they  were  aged!— but  I  got  no  farther 
than  the  middle  ferry.  Are  you  sure  that  troops  are 
being  withdi'awn  from  Germantown  ? " 

I  said  I  was,  and  in  large  numbers.  After  this  we 
rode  on  in  silence  through  the  twilight.  I  glanced 
now  and  then  at  my  companion,  the  boldest  of  our 
partisan  leaders,  and  already  a  sharp  thorn  in  the 
side  of  General  Howe's  extended  line.  He  was  slight, 
well  made,  and  dark,  with  some  resemblance  to 
Arthur  Wynne,  but  with  no  weak  lines  about  a 
mouth  which,  if  less  handsome  than  my  cousin's,  was 
far  more  resolute. 

I  was  ready  to  drop  from  my  rough  steed  when  we 
began,  about  nine  at  night,  to  see  the  camp-fires  of 
our  army  on  either  side  of  Skippack  Creek.  A  halt 
at  the  pickets,  and  we  rode  on  around  the  right  flank 
among  rude  huts,  rare  tents,  rows  of  spancelled 
horses,— we  call  it  "hobbled"  nowadays,— and  so  at 
last  to  a  group  of  tents,  the  headquarters  of  the  small 
cavalry  division. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      299 

"  Halt !  "  I  heard ;  and  I  literally  almost  tumbled 
off  my  hoi-se,  pleased  to  see  the  last  of  him. 

''This  way,  sir,"  said  MeLane,  ''Here  is  my  tent. 
There  is  a  tlask  under  the  ])ine-needles.  I  have  no 
feather-bed  to  offer,  (ret  an  hour's  rest :  it  is  all  vou 
can  have  just  now.  When  I  find  out  the  headquar- 
ters, you  must  ride  acraiu."    And  he  was  gone. 

I  found  a  jui;  of  water  and  a  towel;  but  my  at- 
tempts to  get  the  blood  and  mud  out  of  my  hair  and 
neck  were  quite  vain.  I  gave  it  up  at  last.  Then  I 
nearly  emptied  the  flask  whioh  McLane  had  left  me, 
set  my  sack  under  my  head,  j)ulled  up  a  blanket,  and 
in  a  minute  was  out  of  the  world  of  war  and  sound 
asleep. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  my  slumber  lasted  on  my 
fragrant  bed  of  pine.  I  heard  a  voice  say,  "Are  you 
dead,  man  ? "  And  shaken  roughly,  I  sat  up,  confused, 
and  for  a  moment  wondering  where  I  was. 

*•  Come,"  said  McLane.     "  Oh,  leave  your  sack." 

"No,"  I  said,  not  caring  to  explain  why. 

In  a  moment  I  was  in  the  saddle,  as  fi'esh  as  need 
be,  the  cool  October  night-^\ind  in  my  face. 

"  "Wliere  are  we  bound  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Head(iuarters.  I  want  you  to  tell  your  own  news. 
Hang  the  man  !  "  We  had  knocked  down  a  lurching 
drunkard,  but  McLane  stayed  to  ask  no  questions, 
and  in  a  half-hour  we  pulled  up  in  the  glare  of  a  huge 
fire,  around  which  lay  aides,  some  asleep  and  others 
smoking.    A  few  yards  away  was  a  row  of  tents. 

Mclxine  looked  a))Out  him.  "  Holloa,  Hamilton  !  " 
he  cried  to  a  slight  young  man  lying  at  the  fire. 


300      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  Tell  his  Excellency  I  am  here.  I  have  news  of  im- 
portance." 

A  moment  after,  the  gentleman,  who  was  to  become 
so  well  known  and  to  die  so  needlessly,  came  back, 
and  we  followed  him  to  the  largest  of  the  tents.  As 
he  lifted  the  fly  he  said,  ''Captain  McLane  to  see 
your  Excellency." 

On  a  plain  farm-house  table  were  four  candles, 
dimly  lighting  piles  of  neatly  folded  papers,  a  simple 
camp-bed,  two  or  three  wooden  stools,  and  a  camp- 
chest.  The  ofiicer  who  sat  bareheaded  at  the  table 
pushed  aside  a  map  and  looked  up.  I  was  once  more 
in  the  presence  of  "Washington.  Both  McLane  and 
I  stood  waiting— I  a  little  behind. 

''  Whom  have  you  here,  sir  ? " 

''Mr.  Wynne,  a  gentleman  who  has  escaped  in 
disguise  to  join  the  army.  He  has  news  which  may 
interest  your  Excellency."  As  he  spoke  I  came 
forward. 

"  Are  you  wounded,  sir  ? " 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  it  is  another  man's  blood,  not  mine." 
He  showed  no  further  curiosity,  nor  any  sign  of  the 
amazement  I  had  seen  in  the  faces  of  his  aides-de- 
camp on  my  appearance  at  the  camp-fire. 

"Pray  be  seated,  gentlemen.  Do  me  the  favour. 
Captain  McLane,  to  ask  Colonel  Hamilton  to  retui'n. 
Mr.  Wynne,  you  said  ? " 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency." 

Then,  to  set  myseK  right,  I  told  him  that  I  had  had 
the  honour  to  have  met  him  at  the  house  of  my  aunt, 
Mistress  Wynne.     "  With  permission,  sir,"  I  added, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      301 

"  I  am  charged  to  deliver  to  your  Excelleucy  eight 
hundred  pounds  which  Mistress  Wynne  humbly 
trust^s  may  be  of  use  to  the  cause  of  liberty."  So 
sjipng,  I  pulled  the  English  notes  out  of  my  long 
stockings  and  laid  them  before  him. 

*'  I  could  desire  many  reciiiits  like  you,"  he  said. 
**  Mr.  Hamilton,  I  beg  to  present  Mr.  Wynne.  Have 
the  kindness  to  make  memoranda  of  what  he  may 
tell  us."  He  spoke  Avith  deli]>eration,  as  one  who  had 
learned  to  weigh  his  words,  not  omitting  any  of  the 
usual  courteous  forms,  more  common  at  that  time 
than  in  our  less  formal  day.  General  Knox  came  in 
as  we  sat  down. 

He  was  a  sturdy  man  with  a  sliglit  stoop,  and  had 
left  his  book-shop  in  Boston  to  become  the  trusted 
friend  and  artillery  officer  of  the  great  Virginian, 
who  chose  his  men  with  slight  regard  to  the  tongues 
of  the  Southern  officers,  for  whom  they  were  too 
often  "  sliopkeepers  "  or  '•  mere  traders." 

'•  Report  of  court  martial  on  Daniel  Ph-nipton, 
de.-<erter,''  said  Knox.  The  general  took  the  papers, 
and  for  ten  minutes  at  least  was  intently  concerned 
with  what  he  reatl.  Then  he  took  a  pen  and  wi'ote 
a  line  and  his  name,  and,  looking  up,  said,  "  Approved, 
of  course.  Parade  his  regiment  at  daybreak  for  exe- 
cution. Your  pardon,  gentlemen."  And  at  once  he 
began  to  put  to  me  a  series  of  questions  rather  slowly. 
The  absence  of  hurry  surprised  mf',  young  as  I  was, 
and  not  yet  apt  to  take  in  all  I  might  see.  Every 
minute  .some  oii»'  appeared.  Thei't'  were  papers  to 
sign,  aidf'S  coming  and  going,  impatient  sounds  with- 


302      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

out,  a  man's  death  decreed ;  but  with  no  sign  of  haste 
he  went  on  to  finish. 

At  last  he  rose  to  his  feet,  we  also  standing,  of 
course.  "Ai-e  3'ou  sure  that  Sir  William  has  re- 
called any  large  force  from  Germantown  ?— any  large 
force!" 

I  knew  that  the  Grenadiers  and  many  Hessians  had 
come  in,  and  a  considerable  part  of  the  artillery,  but 
to  what  extent  or  precisely  in  what  numbers  I  could 
not  be  sure.  He  seemed  to  me  to  be  intensely  con- 
sidering what  I  told  him. 

At  last  he  said,  "  You  must  be  tired.  You  have 
brought  much  needed  help,  and  also  good  news." 
Why  good  I  did  not  then  understand.  "And  now 
what  do  you  desire!  How  can  I  serve  you,  Mr. 
Wynne  !  " 

I  said  I  wished  to  be  in  the  ranks  for  a  time, 
until  I  learned  a  little  more  of  the  duty. 

He  made  no  comment,  but  turning  to  McLane, 
said,  "  Captain  McLane,  you  will  care  for  this  gen- 
tleman. I  trust  occasion  may  serve,  Mr.  Wynne,  to 
enable  me  to  offer  Mistress  WjTine  my  thanks.  When 
you  desire  a  commission,  Mr.  Hamilton  will  kindly 
remind  me  of  the  service  you  have  done  your  coun- 
try to-day.  You  have  acted  with  your  usual  discre- 
tion. Captain  McLane.  Good-night,  gentlemen." 
We  bowed  and  went  out. 

On  our  way  back  we  rode  a  footpace,  while  the 
captain,  now  ready  enough  to  talk,  answered  my 
many  questions.  "  Yes ;  the  general  was  a  reserved, 
tranquil  man,  with  a  chained-up  devil  inside  of  him  j 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      303 

could  lay  a  whip  over  a  black  fellow's  back  if  a  horse 
were  ill  groomed,  or  call  a  luau— and  he  a  generid 

—  a  d ili-unkard;  but  that  woidd  be  in  the  heat 

of  a  fight.  ^Vn  archbishop  would  learn  to  swear  in 
the  army,  and  the  general  had  no  more  piety  than 
was  good  for  men  who  were  here  to  commit  murder." 

The  next  day  I  set  out  afoot,  as  I  preferred,  to  look 
for  Jack,  and  a  nice  business  I  found  it.  The  army 
was  moNing  down  the  Skippack  road  to  Worcester 
township,  and  the  whole  march  seemed,  to  me  at  least, 
one  great  bewildering  confusion  of  dust,  artillery, 
or  waggons  stalled,  profane  aides  going  liither  and 
thither,  broken  fences,  women  standing  at  farm-house 
doors,  white  and  cr\dug,  as  the  long  line  of  our  foot 
passed ;  and  over  all  rang  sharp  the  clink  and  rattle 
of  Hanking  cavahy  as  the  horse  streamed  by,  tram- 
phng  the  ruddy  buckwheat-fields,  and  through  rav- 
aged orchards  and  broken  gardens.  Overhead,  in  a 
great  cloud  higli  in  air,  the  fine  dust  was  blown  down 
the  line  by  the  east  wind.  It  was  thick  and  oppres- 
sive, choking  man  and  horse  Avith  an  exacting  thirst, 
mocked  by  empty  wells  and  defiled  brooks.  No  one 
knew  where  any  one  else  was,  and  in  all  my  life,  save 
on  one  memorable  evening,  I  never  heard  as  gi'cat  a 
variety  of  abominable  language. 

I  had  done  my  best,  by  some  change  of  under- 
clothes and  the  industrious  use  of  soap  and  water,  to 
make  my  ai»]varance  less  uoticeal)le ;  Ijut  it  was  still 
bad  enough,  beeause  I  had  no  outer  garments  except 
those  I  was  wearing.  Had  I  been  better  dressed,  I 
had  fared  better ;  for  in  those  days  clothes  were  cou- 


304      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

sidered,  and  you  might  easily  tell  by  his  costume  if  a 
man  were  a  mechanic,  a  farmer,  a  small  trader,  or  a 
gentleman. 

I  fell  at  last  upon  an  officer  who  was  endeavouring 
to  get  his  horse  a  share  of  wayside  ditch  water.  I 
said  to  him,  seeing  my  chance,  that  his  horse  had 
picked  up  a  stone;  if  he  would  wait  a  moment  I  || 

would  knock  it  out.  On  this,  and  upon  his  thank- 
ing me,  I  asked  where  I  might  find  Wayne's  brigade, 
for  in  it,  as  I  knew,  was  my  captain  of  the  Third 
Pennsylvania  Continental  foot.  He  told  me  it  was 
a  mile  ahead.  Comforted  by  this  news,  I  walked  on, 
keeping  chiefly  in  the  fields,  for  there  alone  was  it 
possible  to  get  past  the  marching  columns. 

About  eleven  there  was  a  halt.  I  passed  a  lot  of 
loose  women  in  carts,  many  canvas-covered  commis- 
sary waggons,  footsore  men  fallen  out,  and  some 
asleep  in  the  fields,— all  the  scum  and  refuse  of  an  j 

army, — with  always  dust,  dust,  so  that  man,  beast, 
waggons,  and  every  green  thing  were  of  one  dull 
yellow.  Then  there  was  shouting  on  the  road ;  the 
stragglers  fled  left  and  right,  a  waggon  of  swearing 
women  turned  over  into  a  great  ditch,  and  with  ^ 

laughter,  curses,  and  crack  of  whip,  two  well-horsed 
cannon  and  caissons  bounded  over  the  field,  crashing 
through  a  remnant  of  snake  fence,  and  so  down  the 
road  at  speed.  I  ran  behind  them,  glad  of  the  gap 
they  left.  About  a  mile  farther  they  pulled  up,  and 
going  by  I  saw  with  joy  the  red  and  buff  of  the 
Pennsylvania  line.  Behind  them  there  was  an 
interval,  and  thus  the  last  files  were  less  dusty.   But 


HuLji:h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      305 

for  this  I  should  have  gone  past  them.  A  soldier 
told  me  that  this  was  the  regimeut  I  sought,  aud, 
searching  the  ranks  eagerly  as  they  stood  at  ease,  I 
walked  swiftly  along. 

"  Holloa  !  "  I  shouted.  I  saw  Jack  look  about  him. 
*•■  Jack  I  "  I  cried.  He  ran  to  me  as  I  spoke.  I  think 
I  .-;hoidd  have  kissed  him  but  for  the  staring  soldiers. 
In  all  my  life  I  never  wtus  so  glad.  There  was  brief 
time  allowed  for  greetings.  "  Fall  in  !  fall  in  !  "  I 
heard.     '•  ,^larch  !  " 

"  Come  along,"  he  said.  And  walking  beside  him, 
I  poured  out  news  of  home,  of  my  Aunt  Gaiuor,  and 
of  myself. 

A  mile  beyond  we  halted  close  to  the  road  near  to 
Methacton  Hill,  where,  I  may  add,  we  lay  that  night 
of  October  2.  Having  no  tents,  Jack  and  I  slept 
on  the  ground  rolled  up  in  Holland  blankets,  and 
sheltered  in  part  by  a  wicky-up,  which  the  men  con- 
trived cleverly  enough. 

I  saw  on  our  an'ival  how— automatically,  as  it 
seemed  to  me— the  regiments  found  camping- gi-ounds, 
and  how  well  the  ragged  men  arranged  for  shelters 
of  boughs,  or  made  tents  with  two  rails  and  a  blanket. 
The  confusion  disappeared.  Sentries  and  pickets 
were  posted,  fires  were  lit,  and  food  cooked.  The 
order  of  it  seenu'd  to  me  as  mysterious  as  the  seem- 
ing disorder  of  the  march. 

After  .some  talk  with  Jack,  I  concluded  to  serve  as 
a  volunteer,  at  least  for  a  few  weeks,  and  learn  the 
V)usines8  better  before  I  should  decide  to  accept  the 
general's  kindness.     Accordingly  I  took  my  place 


306      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

in  the  ranks  of  Jack's  company,  and,  confiding  most 
of  my  gold  to  Ms  care,  kept  in  a  belt  under  my 
clothes  not  more  than  six  guineas,  as  I  remember. 
No  uniform  was  to  be  had  at  any  price ;  but  I  was 
hardly  worse  off  than  half  of  the  men  who  made  up 
our  company.  A  musket,  and  what  else  was  wanted, 
I  obtained  without  trouble,  and  as  to  the  drill,  I  knew 
it  well  enough,  thanks  to  the  Irish  sergeant  who  had 
trained  us  at  home. 

Our  duties,  of  course,  kept  us  much  apart— that  is, 
Jack  and  myself;  but  as  he  made  use,  or  pretended 
to  make  use,  of  me  as  an  orderly,  I  was  able  to  see 
more  of  him  than  otherwise  would  have  been  possi- 
ble. My  pistols  I  asked  him  to  use  until  I  could 
reclaim  them,  and  I  made  him  happy  with  the  to- 
bacco I  brought,  and  which  I  soon  saw  him  divid- 
ing among  other  officers ;  for  what  was  Jack's  was 
always  everybody's.  And,  indeed,  because  of  this 
generosity  he  has  been  much  imposed  upon  by  the 
selfish. 


xvir 


N  this  night  of  tlie  2d  of  October,  Jack 
tokl  ine  we  sliouki  move  next  niornintr 
I  or  the  day  after.  He  liad  seen  General 
Wayne  on  an  errand  for  onr  colonel. 
"  A  strong  talker,  the  general ;  but  as 
ready  to  tight  as  to  talk.''  In  fact,  ammunition  was 
i.>isued,  and  before  dawn  on  the  4th  the  mjTiad  noises 
of  an  army  breaking  camp  aroused  me.  It  was  a 
gray  morning  over-head,  and  cool.  When  we  fell 
into  line  to  inarch,  Jack  called  me  out  of  the  ranks. 
"  There  ^\-ill  be  a  fight,  Hugh.  Mr.  Howe  has  sent 
troo])s  into  Jersey,  and  weakened  his  hold  on  the 
village,  or  so  it  is  thought.  In  fact,  you  know  tliat, 
for  it  was  von  that  fetched  the  news.  If— I  should 
get  killed— you  will  tell  your  aunt— not  to  forget  me 
—and  Darthea  too.  And  my  father— my  father, 
Hugh  — I  have  wi-itten  to  him  and  to  Miss  Wynne— 
in  case  of  accident."  The  day  before  a  fight  Jack 
was  always  going  to  be  killed.  T  do  not  think  I  ever 
thought  I  should  be  hit.  I  had.  later  in  the  war,  a 
constant  impression  that,  if  I  were,  it  would  be  in  the 
stoinaeh,  and  tliis  idea  I  much  disliked.  I  fell  to 
thinking  of  Darthea  and  Jack,  wondering  a  little, 


308      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

until  the  drum  and  fife  struck  up,  and  at  tlie  word 
we  stepped  out. 

I  have  no  intention  to  describe  more  of  the  fight 
at  Germantown  than  I  saw,  and  that  was  but  little. 
It  seemed  to  me  confusion  worse  confounded,  and 
I  did  not  wonder  that  Gray  don  had  once  written 
me  from  the  North  that  we  were  in  a  "scuffle  for 
liberty."  The  old  village  was  then  a  long,  broken 
line  of  small,  gray  stone  houses,  set  in  gardens  on 
each  side  of  the  highway,  with  here  and  there  a 
larger  mansion,  like  the  Chew  House,  Cliveden,  and 
that  of  the  Wisters. 

The  ascent  from  the  city  is  gradual.  At  Mount 
Airy  it  is  more  abrupt,  and  yet  more  steep  at  Chest- 
nut Hill,  where  my  aunt's  house,  on  the  right,  looks 
down  on  broken  forests,  through  which  the  centre 
marched  by  the  Perkiomen  road.  The  fight  on  our 
right  wing  I  knew  nothing  of  for  many  a  day. 

As  we  tramped  on  our  march  of  many  miles,  the 
fog  which  the  east  wind  brought  us  grew  thicker, 
but  there  was  less  dust.  Soon  after  dusk  of  morn- 
ing we  came  out  of  the  woods,  and  moved  up  the 
ascent  of  Chestnut  Hill,  where  I  wondered  to  find 
no  defences.  There  were  scarce  any  houses  here- 
abouts, and  between  the  hill  and  the  descent  to  Mount 
Airy  our  own  regiment  diverged  to  the  left,  off  the 
road.  There  were  hardly  any  fences  to  trouble  us, 
and  where  the  lines  were  broken  by  gardens  or 
hedges,  we  went  by  and  remade  the  line,  which  was 
extended  more  to  left  as  we  moved  away  from  the 
highway. 


Hugh  \W'nne  :  Free  Quaker      309 

At  len<]:th  we  were  halted.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
glad  days  I  had  spent  hereabouts  when  we  heard  to 
right  the  rattle  of  muskets.  ]MeLane  had  driven  in 
the  advance  picket  of  the  enemy.  Then  the  right  of 
C)ur  own  force  fell  on  some  British  light  infantry, 
and.  swinging  the  left  on  the  right  as  a  pivot,  our 
own  flanking  regiment  faced  their  guns,  so  that  we 
were  in  part  back  on  the  main  road.  The  sun  came 
out  for  a  little,  but  the  fog  thickened,  and  it  was  lost. 
I  saw  Jack  look  at  me,  and  noticed  how  flushed  he 
was,  and  that  his  face  was  twitching.  So  heav\'  was 
the  fog  that,  as  we  saw  the  guns,  we  were  almost  on 
them.  To  see  fifty  feet  ahead  was  impossil)le.  I  saw 
two  red  fla.shes  as  the  muskets  rang  out.  There  were 
wild  fries,  (juit-k  orders :  ''  Fire  !  fire  !  "  And  vdih  a 
gi-eat  shout  we  ran  forward,  I  hearing  Jack  cry, 
''  The  bayonet !  the  bayonet !  "  I  saw  in  the  smoke 
and  fog  men  fall  to  right  and  left,  and  in  a  moment 
was  after  Jack,  who  stood  between  the  guns,  fencing 
with  two  big  grenadiers.  I  clu})bed  one  of  them  with 
my  l)utt,  and  Jack  disposed  of  the  second. 

Meanwhile  the  English  line  had  broken,  and  men 
who  had  fallen  hurt  or  were  standing  wer<'  crying 
for  quarter.  I  saw  none  given.  It  was  horril)le.  Our 
men  were  paying  a  sad  dcljt,  contracted  on  the  20th 
of  September,  when  Grey  surpi-ised  Wayne  at  Paoli, 
and  there  were  no  wounded  left  and  few  prisoners. 

It  was  a  frightful  scene,  and  when  the  officers  suc- 
ceeded to  stop  the  slaughter,  the  account  had  been 
mercilessly  settled,  and  tliere  was  scarce  a  living 
enemy  in  sight.     Hastily  reforming,  we  went  on 


31  o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

again,  more  to  left  of  the  main  road,  through  tents, 
scattered  baggage,  dying  horses,  and  misty  red 
splotches  where  the  scarlet  uniforms  lay  thick  on  the 
wet  grass.  As  we  pushed  on,  the  fog  broke  a  little, 
and  a  confused  mass  of  redcoats  was  seen,  some 
running,  and  some  following  tumultuously  their  colo. 
nel,  Musgrave,  into  the  solid  stone  house  of  Clive- 
den, while  the  larger  number  fled  down  the  road  and 
over  the  fields. 

Meanwhile  Sullivan's  people  came  up.  Two  cannon 
set  across  the  road— they  were  but  four-pounders— 
opened  with  small  effect  on  the  stone  house.  The 
fire  from  the  windows  was  fierce  and  fatal.  Men 
dropped  here  and  there,  until  Jack  called  to  us  to 
lie  down.  We  were  at  this  time  behind  the  mansion. 
As  we  lay,  I  saw  Jack  walking  to  and  fro,  and  coolly 
lighting  a  pipe.  Our  company  lay  to  the  left  a  little, 
and  away  from  the  rest  of  the  regiment.  I  called 
to  Jack  : 

"Let  us  rush  it,  Jack,  and  batter  down  the  back 
door." 

Jack,  as  I  rose,  called  out  to  me,  with  a  fierce  oath, 
to  keep  still  and  obey  orders.  I  dropped,  and  as  I 
did  so  saw  an  of&cer  with  a  white  flag  shot  down  as 
he  went  forward  to  ask  a  surrender. 

Then  we  were  ordered  to  march,  leaving  a  regiment 
to  continue  the  siege ;  a  half -hour  had  been  lost.  We 
went  at  a  run  quite  two  miles  down  the  slope,  now 
on,  now  off  the  main  street,  with  red  gleams  now  and 
then  seen  through  this  strangeness  of  fog.  The  Brit- 
ish were  flying,  broken  and  scattered,  over  the  fields. 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker      3 1  i 

I  heard  "  Halt !  "  as  we  svnmg  parallel  with  the 
road  at  the  market-place,  where  the  Grenadiers  made 
a  gallant  stand,  as  wtis  kuo^vn  by  the  more  orderly 
platoon  firing.  Then  we,  too,  broke  out  iu  gi'eat 
blaze,  and  after,  what  with  fog  and  smoke,  a  fight  iu 
a  cellar  were  as  good. 

The  next  minute  our  people  came  down  the  high- 
way, and,  between  the  two  fii*es,  the  Enghsh  again 
gave  way.  I  heard,  "Forward  !  We  have  'em ! "  Some 
near  me  hesitated,  and  I  saw  Jack  run  by  me  crying, 
"  The  bayonet,  men  !  After  me !  "  I  saw  no  more 
of  Jack  for  many  a  day.  "We  were  in  the  wide  market- 
place—a mob  of  furious  men,  blind  with  fog  and 
smoke,  stabbing,  clubbing,  striking,  as  chance  served. 
My  great  personal  strength  helped  me  well.  Twice 
I  cleared  a  space,  until  my  musket  broke.  I  fell 
twice,  once  with  a  hard  crack  on  the  head  from  the 
butt  of  a  musket.  As  some  English  went  over  me, 
I  stabbed  at  them  madly,  and  got  a  bayonet  thrust 
in  my  left  arm.  I  was  up  in  a  moment,  and  for  a 
little  while,  quite  unarmed,  was  in  the  middle  of  a 
confused  mass  of  men  raging  and  swearing  like  mani- 
acs. Suddenly  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  near  me ; 
the  noise  of  muskets,  tlie  roar  of  cannonr}-,  red  flashes 
in  the  fog  in  front  — that  was  all,  as  I  stood  panting 
and  dazed.  Next  I  heard  wild  cries  back  of  me,  and 
the  crash  of  musketry.  Stephens's  division,  coming 
up  beliiud  us,  began  to  fire,  mistaking  us,  in  the  in- 
fernal darkness,  for  an  enen)y.  Our  people  broke 
under  it,  and,  passing  me,  ran,  beaten  ;  for  the  panic 
spread  in  the  very  moment  of  victory. 


3  I  2      Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker 

I  turned,  not  understanding,  stumbled  over  a  dead 
man,  and  suddenly  felt  as  if  a  stone  had  struck  my 
left  leg  above  the  knee.  I  fell  instantly,  and  for  a 
time— I  do  not  know  how  long— lost  consciousness. 
It  could  have  been  but  a  few  moments. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  got  up,  confused  and 
giddy,  and  began  to  walk,  but  with  painful  difficulty, 
stumbling  over  dead  or  wounded  men.  Our  people 
were  gone,  and  I  saw  no  one  for  a  little,  till  I  heard 
the  quick  tramp  of  feet  and  saw  through  the  fog  the 
red  line  of  a  marching  regiment  almost  upon  me.  I 
made  an  effort  to  fall  to  one  side  of  the  street,  but 
dropped  again,  and  once  more  knew  nothing.  I 
think  they  went  over  me.  When  evening  came,  I 
found  myself  lying  with  others  on  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  the  Wister  house.  How  I  was  taken  thither 
I  know  as  little  as  any.  I  was  stiff,  sore,  and  bloody, 
but  soon  able  to  look  about  me.  I  found  a  bandage 
around  my  leg,  and  felt  in  no  great  pain  unless  I 
tried  to  move.  Men  in  red  coats  came  and  went,  but 
none  heeded  my  cry  for  water,  until  an  old  servant- 
woman,  who  during  the  fight  had  refused  to  leave 
the  house,  brought  me  a  drink.  I  knew  her  well.  I 
tried  to  tell  her  who  I  was,  but  my  parched  tongue 
failed  me,  and  a  rough  corporal  bade  her  begone. 
My  watch,  a  good  silver  one,  was  stolen,  but  my 
money-belt  was  safe. 

Beside  me  were  many  other  wounded,  one  man 
hideous  vsdth  his  jaw  broken  ;  he  seemed  to  me  dying. 
By  and  by  soldiers  fetched  others.  Then  a  detach- 
ment of  Virginians  went  past,  in  their  fringed  skin 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker      3 1  3 

shirts,  prisoners,  black  -wdth  smoke,  dirty  and  sullen. 
Surgeons'  aids  came  and  went  in  and  out,  and  soon 
the  sidewalk  was  crowded  with  the  wounded.  At  last 
they  carried  a  dying  general  into  the  house.  I  asked 
his  name,  but  no  one  answered  me.  It  was  the  brig- 
adier Agnew,  now  lying  at  rest  in  the  lower  burial- 
ground  by  Fishei*'s  Lane. 

An  otfieer  came  and  counted  us  like  sheep.  About 
nine  a  row  of  carts  stopped,  — country  waggons  seized 
for  the  purpose,— and,  with  small  tenderness,  we 
were  told  to  get  in,  or  at  need  lifted  in.  I  was  put, 
with  eight  others,  in  a  great  Couestoga  wain  without 
a  cover.  Soon  a  detachment  of  horse  arrived,  and 
thus  guarded,  we  were  carted  away  like  logs. 

The  road  was  never  good,  but  now  it  was  full  of 
holes  and  cut  up  by  the  wheels  of  artiller\'.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  misery  of  that  ride.  I  set  my  teeth 
and  resolved  to  utter  no  groan.  Before  us  and  be- 
hind us  were  many  loads  of  wounded  men,  chiefly 
such  a.s  seemed  fit  to  travel.  There  were  nine  of  us. 
One  was  dead  before  we  reached  town.  As  we  jolted 
on,  and  the  great  wain  rocked,  I  heard  the  crack 
of  the  drivers'  whips,  and  far  and  near,  in  the  dark- 
ness or  near  beside  me,  curses,  prayers,  mad  screams 
f)f  pain,  or  men  imploring  water. 

When  near  to  Nicetowu,  came  on  a  cold,  heavy 
rain  which  chilled  us  to  shivering.  I  let  my  hand- 
kerchief get  soaked,  and  sucked  it.  Then  I  wet  it 
again- the  rain  a  torrent— and  gave  it  into  the  hand 
of  him  who  was  next  me.  He  could  not  use  his  arm, 
nor  could  I  turn  to  aid  him,  nor  did  he  answer  me. 


314    Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

At  times  we  waited  on  the  way,  so  ttiat  it  was  one 
in  the  morning  when  we  found  ourselves  in  Chestnut 
street  in  front  of  the  State-House.  It  was  still  dis- 
mally raining.  We  were  told  to  get  out,  and  with 
help  I  did  so,  a  hne  of  soldiers  standing  on  each  side ; 
but  no  one  else  near,  and  it  was  too  dark  to  see  if 
any  whom  I  knew  were  to  be  seen.  When  they  pulled 
out  the  man  next  to  me,  his  head  fell,  and  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  dead.  He  was  laid  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  we  were  helped  or  made  to  crawl  upstairs  to  the 
long  room  in  the  second  story. 

Here  some  surgeons'  mates  came  and  saw  to  us 
quite  patiently.  Soldiers  fetched  bread  and  water. 
I  asked  a  pleasant  kind  of  youth,  a  sui'geon's  aid, 
to  let  my  aunt  know  of  my  condition.  He  said  he 
would,  and,  without  the  least  doubt  that  he  would 
keep  his  word,  I  managed  to  get  into  a  position  of 
partial  ease,  and,  sure  of  early  reUef,  lay  awaiting 
the  sleep  which  came  at  last  when  I  was  weary  with 
listening  to  the  groans  of  less  patient  men.  The 
young  surgeon  never  troubled  himself  with  the  de- 
livery of  my  message.    May  the  Lord  reward  him ! 


XVIII 

HE  mad  screams  of  a  man  in  an  ag:ony 
of  pain  awoke  me  on  this  Sunday,  Octo- 
ber o,  at  daybreak.  The  room  was  a 
sorry  sight.  Some  had  died  in  the  night, 
and  were  soon  carried  out  for  burial  I 
lay  .^till,  iu  no  gi*eat  pain,  and  reflected  on  the  swift 
succession  of  events  of  the  past  week.  I  had  had 
bad  luck,  but  soon,  of  course,  my  aunt  or  father 
would  know  of  my  misfortune.  As  I  waited  for  what 
might  come,  I  tried  to  recall  the  events  of  the  battle. 
I  found  it  almost  impossible  to  gather  them  into 
consecutive  clearness,  and  often  since  I  have  won- 
dered to  hear  men  profess  to  deliver  a  lucid  history 
of  what  went  on  in  some  desperate  struggle  of  war. 
I  do  not  believe  it  to  be  possible. 

Being  always  of  a  sanguine  turn  of  mind,  I 
waited,  full  of  comforting  hope.  About  five,  after 
some  scant  food,  we  were  told  to  get  up  and  go  down- 
stairs. It  was  still  dark  because  of  the  continuous 
ruin  and  overcast  skies.  I  refused  to  walk,  and  was 
lifted  by  two  men  and  j)ut  in  a  waggon.  A  few  early 
idh'rs  were  around  the  door  to  see  us  come  out.  I 
looked  eagerly  for  a  face  I  knew,  but  saw  none.  Our 
ride  wuij  short.     We  went  down  Sixth  street,  and 


316      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

drew  up  at  the  Walnut  street  front  of  the  prison^ 
called,  while  the  British  held  the  town,  the  Provost. 
It  was  unfinished,  a  part  being  temporarily  roofed 
over  with  boards.  At  the  back  was  a  large  yard 
with  high  walls.  Some,  but  not  all,  of  the  windows 
in  the  upper  story  had  transverse  slats  to  keep  those 
within  from  seeing  out.  On  the  Sixth  street  side 
were  none  of  these  guards,  and  here  the  windows 
overlooked  the  potter's  field,  which  now  we  call  Wash- 
ington Square. 

As  I  managed,  with  some  rough  help,  to  get  up  the 
steps,  a  few  early  risen  people  paused  to  look  on. 
Others  came  from  the  tumble-down  houses  on  the 
north  side  of  Walnut  street,  but  again  I  was  unfortu- 
nate, and  saw  none  I  knew. 

My  heart  fell  within  me  as  I  looked  up  at  the  gray 
stone  walls  and  grated  windows.  The  door  soon 
closed  behind  a  hundred  of  us,  not  a  few  being  of 
the  less  severely  wounded.  Often  in  passing  I  had 
thought,  with  a  boy's  hori'or,  of  this  gloomy  place, 
and  tried  to  imagine  how  I  should  feel  in  such  a 
cage.     I  was  to  learn  full  well. 

With  fifteen  others,  I  was  shut  up  in  a  room  about 
twenty-two  feet  square,  on  the  Sixth  street  side  and 
in  the  second  story.  I  was,  but  for  a  Virginia 
captain,  the  only  wounded  man  among  these^  the 
rest  being  stout  country  fellows,  ruddy  and  strong, 
except  one  lean  little  man,  a  clerk,  as  I  learned  later, 
and  of  the  commissary  department. 

As  I  had  again  refused  to  walk  upstairs,  I  was 
carried,  and  not  rudely  laid  down  by  two  soldiers  in 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       317 

a  corner  of  the  bare  room,  uow  to  be  for  many  a 
day  our  prison.  The  rest  sat  down  here  and  there 
in  dull  silence,  now  and  then  looking  at  the  door 
as  if  there  hope  was  to  be  expected  to  enter.  I 
called  the  Virginia  captain,  after  an  hour  had  gone 
by,  and  asked  him  to  lift  and  ease  my  hurt  leg. 
He  was  quick  to  help,  and  tender.  In  a  few  min- 
utes we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  thus  began 
a  friendly  relation  which  lias  endured  to  this  present 
time. 

For  a  day  or  two  soldiers  were  employed  as  turn- 
keys, but  then  a  lot  of  rough  fellows  took  their 
places,  and  we  began  to  feel  the  change,  I  may  say 
the  like  of  our  food.  For  a  week  it  was  better  than 
our  pot-luck  in  camp.  We  had  rye  bread,  tea  with- 
out sugar,  and  liorribly  tough  beef  ;  but  within  two 
weeks  tlie  ration  fell  to  bread  and  water,  with  uow 
and  then  salt  or  fresh  beef,  and  potatoes  or  beans, 
but  neither  nun  nor  tea.  A  sui-geon  dressed  my 
wounds  for  a  month,  and  then  I  saw  him  no  more, 
lie  was  a  surly  fellow,  and  would  do  for  rae  nothing 
else,  and  was  usually  half  intoxicated.  The  arm  was 
soon  well,  but  the  leg  wound  got  full  of  maggots 
when  it  was  no  longer  cared  for,  and  only  when,  in 
Januar}',  I  pulled  out  a  bit  of  bone  did  it  heal. 

Once  a  day,  sometimes  in  the  morning,  more  often 
in  the  afternoon,  we  were  let  out  in  the  yard  for  an 
hour,  watched  by  sentries,  and  these  also  we  heard 
outside  under  our  windows.  Obscr\'ing  how  quickly 
the  big  country  louts  lost  flesh  and  colour,  I  set  my- 
self to  seeing  how  I  could  keep  my  health.     I  talked 


3 1 8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

with  my  unlucky  fellow-prisoners,  ate  the  food  even 
when  it  was  as  vile  as  it  soon  became,  and  when  in 
the  yard  walked  up  and  down  making  acquaintances 
as  soon  as  I  was  able,  while  most  of  the  rest  sat 
about  moping.  I  felt  sure  that  before  long  some  one 
would  hear  of  me  and  bring  relief.     None  came. 

The  scoundrel  in  charge  was  a  Captain  Cunning- 
ham, He  had  risen  from  the  ranks.  A  great,  florid, 
burly,  drunken  brute,  not  less  than  sixty  years  old. 
This  fellow  no  doubt  sold  our  rations,  for  in  Decem- 
ber we  once  passed  three  days  on  rye  bread  and 
water,  and  of  the  former  not  much ;  one  day  we  had 
no  food. 

He  kicked  and  beat  his  victims  at  times  when 
drunk,  and  when  I  proposed  to  him  to  make  ten 
pounds  by  letting  my  aunt  know  where  I  was,  he 
struck  me  with  a  heavy  iron  key  he  carried,  and  cut 
open  my  head,  as  a  great  scar  testifies  to  this  day. 

In  late  December  the  cold  became  intense,  and  we 
were  given  a  blanket  apiece  to  cover  us  as  we  lay 
on  the  straw.  We  suffered  the  more  from  weather 
because  it  chanced  that,  in  October,  the  frigate 
"  Augusta "  blew  up  in  the  harbour,  and  broke  half 
the  panes  of  glass.  In  December  the  snow  came  in 
on  us,  and  was  at  times  thick  on  the  floor.  Once  or 
twice  a  week  we  had  a  little  fire-wood,  and  contrived 
then  to  cook  the  beans,  which  were  rarely  brought 
us  more  than  half  boiled. 

We  did  our  best,  the  captain  and  I,  to  encourage  our 
more  unhappy  companions,  who,  I  think,  felt  more 
than  we  the  horroi*s  of  this  prisoned  life.    We  told 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      319 

stories,  grot  up  games,  and  I  induced  the  men  to  go 
a-fisbing,  as  we  called  it;  that  is,  to  let  down  tlieir 
ragged  hats  through  the  broken  window-panes  by 
cords  torn  from  the  edges  of  our  bhmkets.  Now  and 
then  the  poor  folks  near  by  tilled  these  nets  with  stale 
bread  or  potatoes ;  but  one  day,  after  long  ill  luck, 
a  hat  wai>  of  a  sudden  felt  to  be  hea^y,  jind  was 
declared  a  mighty  catch,  and  hauled  up  witli  care. 
When  it  was  found  to  be  full  of  stones,  a  strange 
misery  appeared  on  the  faces  of  these  eager,  half- 
starved  wretches.  The  little  clerk  said,  "  We  asked 
bread,  and  they  gave  us  a  stone,"  and  of  a  sudden, 
broke  out  into  hideous  exuberance  of  blasphemy, 
like  one  in  a  minute  distraught.  It  was  believed 
Cunningham  had  been  he  who  was  guilty  of  this 
cruel  jest ;  but  as  to  this  I  have  no  assurance.  Our 
efforts  to  cultivate  patience,  and  even  gay  endurance, 
by  degrees  gave  way,  as  we  became  feeble  in  body, 
and  the  men  too  hungiy  to  be  comforted  by  a  joke. 
At  last  the  men  ceased  to  laugh  or  smile,  or  even 
to  talk,  and  sat  in  comers  close  to  one  another  for 
the  saving  of  body  warmth,  silent  and  inert. 

A  stout  butcher,  of  the  Maryland  line,  went  mad, 
and  swore  roundly  he  was  George  the  king.  It  was 
hard,  indeed,  to  resist  the  sense  of  despair  wliich 
seemed  at  last  to  possess  all  alike ;  for  to  starvation 
and  cold  were  added  such  filth  and  vileness  as  men 
of  decent  habits  felt  more  than  those  accustomed 
to  be  careless  tis  to  cleanliness. 

The  Virginian,  one  Richard  Dclaney,  soon  got  over 
a  slight  hurt  he  had,  and  but  for  him  I  should  not 


320      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

be  alive  to-day.  The  place  swarmed  with  rats,  and 
he  and  I  set  to  work  capturing  them,  fllUng  their 
holes  as  they  came  out  at  evening,  and  chasing  them 
until  we  caught  them.  Tliey  kept  well  in  the  intense 
cold,  and  when  we  were  given  fii-e-wood,  we  cooked 
and  ate  them  greedily. 

Meanwhile  death  was  busj^  among  the  starving 
hundreds  thus  huddled  together.  We  saw  every  day 
hasty  bmials  in  the  potter's  field.  I  wrote  twice, 
with  charred  wood,  on  the  half  of  a  handker- 
chief, and  threw  it  out  of  the  window,  but  no  good 
came  of  this ;  I  suppose  the  sentries  were  too  vigi- 
lant. 

A  turnkey  took  one  of  my  guineas,  promising  to 
let  my  aunt  hear  of  me.  I  saw  him  no  more.  As 
to  Cunningham,  he  was  either  too  drunk  to  care,  or 
expected  to  make  more  out  of  our  rations  than  by  a 
bribe,  and  probably  did  not  credit  the  wild  promises 
of  a  ragged  prisoner.  At  all  events,  no  good  came 
of  our  many  efforts  and  devices,  which  were  more 
numerous  than  I  have  patience  to  relate.  From  the 
beginning  my  mind  was  full  of  schemes  for  escaping, 
and  these  I  confided  to  Delaney.  They  served,  at 
least,  to  keep  hope  fat,  as  he  said. 

Early  in  December  I  began  to  have  dysentery,  and 
could  eat  no  more,  or  rarely ;  but  for  Delaney  I  should 
have  died.  He  told  me,  about  this  time,  that  the  men 
meant  to  kill  Cunningham  and  make  a  mad  effort  to 
overcome  the  guard  and  escape.  It  seemed  to  me  the 
wildest  folly,  but  they  were  grown  quite  desperate 
and  resolute  for  something— all  but  the  butcher,  who 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      321 


sang  obscene  songs  or  doleful  hjonns,  and  sat  dejected 
in  a  corner. 

The  day  after  I  saw  the  little  commissaiy  clerk 
ttilkiug  in  the  yard  to  Cunningham,  and  that  even- 
ing  this  ra-scal  appeared  with  two  soldiers  and 
carried  oil"  four  of  the  dozen  left  in  our  room; 
for  witliin  a  week  several  had  died  of  the  t^-phus, 
which  now  raged  among  us.  The  next  morning  the 
clerk  was  found  dead,  strangled,  as  I  believe,  in  the 
night,  but  by  whom  we  never  knew. 

I  got  over  the  dysentery  more  speedily  than  was 
common,  but  it  was  quickly  followed  by  a  bm-ning 
fever.  For  how  long  I  know  not  I  lay  on  the  floor 
in  the  straw,  miserably  rolling  from  side  to  side. 
The  last  impression  I  recall  was  of  my  swearing 
wildly  at  Delaney  because  he  would  insist  on  putting 
under  me  his  own  blanket.  Then  I  lost  conscious- 
ness of  my  pain  and  unrest,  and  knew  no  more  for 
many  days.  I  came  to  a  knowledge  of  myself  to  find 
Delaney  again  caring  for  me,  and  was  of  a  sudden 
aware  howdelicious  was  the  milk  he  was  pouring  do^\^l 
my  throat.  What  else  Delaney  did  for  me  I  know  not, 
except  that  he  found  and  cared  for  mv  monev,  and 
bribed  the  turnkey  with  part  of  it  to  bring  me  milk 
daily  for  some  two  weeks.  But  that  we  had  hid  the 
guineas  forawhilein  thea.shesof  the  fireplace,  Ishould 
have  lost  this  chance  and  have  died ;  for  one  day  Cun- 
ningham made  us  all  strip,  and  searched  us  thoroughly. 

About  the  end  of  January,  Delaney,  seeing  me 
b<.'ttered  and  able  to  sit  up  a  little,  told  me  this 
btruuge  story.     While  I  was  ill  and  unconscious,  an 


21 


322      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


officer  had  come  to  inspect  the  prison.  Cunningham 
was  very  obsequious  to  this  gentleman,  and  on  De- 
laney's  seizing  the  chance  to  complain,  said  it  was  a 
pack  of  lies,  and  how  could  he  help  the  dysentery 
and  typhus  ?  All  jails  had  them,  even  in  England, 
which  was  too  true. 

"  I  went  on,"  said  Delaney,  "  to  say  that  it  was  an 
outrage  to  confine  officers  and  men  together,  and 
that  Mr.  Wynne  and  myseK  should  be  put  on  parole. 
The  inspector  seemed  startled  at  this,  and  said, '  Who "? ' 
I  had  no  mind  to  let  a  lie  stand  in  your  way,  and  I 
repeated,  'Captain  Wynne,'  pointing  to  you,  who 
were  raving  and  wild  enough.  He  came  over  and 
stood  just  here,  looking  down  on  you  for  so  long  that 
I  thought  he  must  be  sorry  for  us.  Then  he  said,  in 
a  queer  way,  and  very  deliberately,  'Will  he  get 
well?  He  ought  to  be  better  looked  after.'  Cun- 
ningham said  it  was  useless,  because  the  surgeon  had 
said  you  would  be  over  yonder  (pointing  to  the  pot- 
ter's field)  in  a  day  or  two."  Which,  in  fact,  was  his 
cheerful  prediction.  It  was  safe  to  say  it  of  any  who 
fell  lU  in  the  jail. 

"  This  officer  appeared  puzzled  or  undecided.  He 
went  out  and  came  back  alone,  and  leaned  over  you, 
asking  me  to  pull  the  blanket  from  your  face.  I 
did  so,  as  he  seemed  afraid  to  touch  it.  You,  my 
dear  Wynne,  were  saying  '  Dorothea '  over  and  over ; 
but  who  is  Dorothea  the  Lord  knows,  or  you.  The 
officer,  after  standing  a  while,  said,  '  it  was  a  pity, 
but  it  was  of  no  use ;  you  would  die.'  As  for  me, 
I  told  him  that   we   were  officers  starving,  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      323 

were  entitled  to  better  treatment.  He  said  he  would 
see  to  it ;  and  that  is  all.  He  went  away,  and  we  are 
still  here ;  but  if  ever—" 

I  broke  in  on  Delanev's  threat  with,  "Who  was 
the  man  \ " 

"  Cimningham  consigned  me  to  a  more  comfortable 
climate  than  this  when  I  asked  him,  and  the  tiu-nkey 
did  not  know," 

"  What  did  he  look  like  ? "  said  I. 

"  He  was  tall,  very  dark,  and  had  a  scar  over  the 
left  eye." 

"  Indeed  ?  Did  he  have  a  way  of  standing  with 
half -shut  eyes,  and  liis  mouth  a  little  open  ? " 

"Certainly,  ^^'hy,  Wynne,  you  must  know  the 
man." 

"  I  do— I  do.     He  is  my  cousin." 

"I  congratulate  you."  And  so  saying,  he  went 
away  to  the  door  to  receive  our  rations,  of  which 
now  every  one  except  oui'selves  stole  whatever  he 
could  lay  hands  on. 

It  did  seem  to  me,  as  I  lay  still,  in  much  distress 
of  body,  and  thought  over  that  which  I  now  heard 
for  the  first  time,  that  no  man  could  be  so  cruel  as 
Arthur  had  shown  himself.  Time  had  gone  by,  and 
he  had  done  nothing.  If,  as  appeared  likely,  he  was 
sure  I  was  almost  m  the  act  of  death,  it  seemed  yet 
worse  ;  for  how  could  I,  a  dying  man,  hurt  any  one? 
If  for  any  eause  he  feared  me,  here  was  an  end  of  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  })f)th  stupid  and  villainous.  He  had 
warned  me  that  I  had  everything  to  dread  from  his 
enmity  if  I  persisted  in  writing  to  Darthea.     As- 


324     Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

suredly  he  had  been  as  good  as  his  word.  He  was 
unwilling  to  risk  any  worldly  advantages  by  giving 
me  a  gentleman's  satisfaction,  and  could  coldly  let 
me  die  far  from  the  love  of  those  dear  to  me,  in  not 
much  better  state  than  a  pig  perishing  in  a  sty.  Nay ; 
the  pig  were  better  off,  having  known  no  better 
things. 

I  thought  much  as  I  lay  there,  having  been  near 
to  death,  and  therefore  seriously  inclined,  how  im- 
possible it  must  ever  be  for  me  to  hate  a  man  enough 
to  do  as  Arthur  had  done.  As  the  days  went  on,  the 
hope  which  each  week  brought  but  hatched  a  new 
despair ;  and  still  I  mended  day  by  day ;  and  for  this 
there  was  a  singular  cause.  I  kept  thinking  of  the 
hour  when  my  cousin  and  I  should  meet ;  and  as  I 
fed  this  animal  appetite  I  won  fresh  desire  to  live, 
the  motive  serving  as  a  means  toward  health  of  body. 

Concerning  what  had  caused  Arthur  to  lift  no 
finger  of  help,  I  tried  to  think  no  more.  If  it  were 
because  of  Darthea,  why  should  he  so  fear  me  ?  I 
wished  he  had  more  reason.  He  must  have  learned 
later  that  I  was  still  alive,  and  that  I  was,  when  he 
saw  me,  in  no  state  to  recognise  him.  It  looked 
worse  and  worse  as  I  thought  about  it,  until  Delaney, 
hearing  me  talk  of  nothing  else,  told  me  I  would  go 
mad  like  the  butcher  if  I  let  myself  dwell  longer 
upon  it.     Thus  wisely  counselled,  I  set  it  aside. 

It  was  now  the  beginning  of  February;  I  was 
greatly  improved,  and  fast  gaining  strength,  but  had 
lost,  as  I  guessed,  nearly  three  stone.  There  were  but 
six  of  us  left,  the  butcher  dying  last  on  his  rotten 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      325 

straw  iu  awful  anj:ruish  of  terror  aiul  despair. 
Delaney  and  I  consoled  each  other  all  this  dreary 
■winter,  and  we  did  all  men  could  do  for  the  more 
unfortunate  ones,  whose  sicknesses  and  deaths  made 
this  hell  of  distress  almost  unbearable. 

The  food  was  at  times  better,  and  then  again,  as  a 
drunkard's  caprice  willed,  there  might  be  none  for 
a  day.  If  we  were  ourselves  wretched  and  starved, 
we  were  at  least  a  source  of  comfort  and  food  to 
those  minor  beings  to  whom  we  furnished  both  board 
and  bed. 

I  do  not  mean  to  tell  over  the  often-heard  story 
of  a  j)rison ;  what  we  did  to  while  away  the  hours ; 
how  we  taxed  our  memories  until  the  reading,  long 
forgotten,  came  back  in  morsels,  and  could  be  put 
together  for  new  pleasure  of  it. 

There  was  one  little  man  who  had  been  a  broken- 
do\N-n  clergA'man,  and  had  entt^red  the  army.  His 
chief  trouble  was  that  he  coidd  get  no  rum,  and  of 
this  he  talked  whenever  we  would  listen.  He  had, 
like  several  sots  I  have  known,  a  remarkable  memory, 
and  was  thus  a  gi*eat  resource  to  us,  as  he  could  re- 
peat whole  plays,  and  a  wonderful  amount  of  the 
Bible.  As  it  was  hard  to  arouse  him,  and  get  him 
to  use  his  power  to  recall  what  he  had  read,  in  an  evil 
hour  we  bribed  him  with  some  choice  bits  of  our 
noble  rations.  After  this  the  price  would  rise  at 
times,  and  he  became  greedy.  His  mind  gave  way 
by  degrees,  but  h«;  still  kej)t  his  memory,  being  also 
more  and  more  eager  to  be  paid  for  his  j)0\ver  to 
interest  or  amuse  us. 


326      Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker 

When  he  grew  melancholy  and  sleepless,  and 
walked  about  all  night,  it  was  a  real  addition  to 
our  many  evils.  He  declared  that  he  must  soon  die, 
and  I  heard  him  one  night  earnestly  beseeching  God, 
in  language  of  great  force  and  eloquence,  to  forgive 
him.  In  the  morning  he  was  dead,  having  strangled 
himself  resolutely  with  a  strip  of  blanket  and  a  bro- 
ken rung  of  a  stool,  with  which  he  had  twisted  the 
cord.  It  must  have  taken  such  obstinate  courage  as 
no  one  could  have  believed  him  to  possess.  He  had 
no  capacity  to  attach  men,  and  I  do  not  think  we 
grieved  for  him  as  much  as  for  the  loss  of  what  was 
truly  a  library,  and  not  to  be  replaced. 

On  the  3d  of  February  I  awakened  with  a  fresh 
and  happy  thought  in  my  mind.  My  good  friend 
the  late  lamented  Dr.  Franklin,  used  to  say  that  in 
sleep  the  mind  creates  thoughts  for  the  day  to  hatch. 
I  am  rather  of  opinion  that  sleep  so  feeds  and  rests 
the  brain  that  when  fii-st  we  awaken  our  power  to 
think  is  at  its  best.  At  aU  events,  on  that  day  I 
suddenly  saw  a  way  to  let  the  sweet  outside  world 
know  I  was  alive. 

At  first  I  used  to  think  of  a  chaplain  as  a  resource, 
but  I  never  saw  one.  The  sui'geon  came  no  more 
when  I  grew  better.  Being  now  able  to  move  about 
a  little,  I  had  noticed  in  the  yard  at  times,  but  only 
of  late,  a  fat  Romanist  priest,  who  was  allowed  to 
bring  soup  or  other  food  to  certain  prisoners.  I  soon 
learned  that,  because  Cunningham  was  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  those  who  were  of  his  own  faith  were  fa^ 
voured.     Indeed,  now  and  then  a  part  of  my  lesser^ 


HughW^ynne:  Free  Quaker      327 

ing  guineas  obtained  from  these  men  a  share  of  the 
supplies  which  the  i)riest,  and,  I  nuiy  add,  certain 
gray-chul  sisters,  also  brought  j  but  this  was  rare. 

That  day  in  the  yard  I  drew  near  to  the  priest, 
but  Siiw  Cunningham  looking  on,  and  so  I  waited 
with  the  patience  of  a  prisoned  man.  It  was  quite 
two  weeks  before  my  chance  came.  The  yard  being 
small,  was  literally  full  of  half-clad,  whole-starved 
men.  who  sliivered  and  huddled  together  where  the 
sunliirht  fell.  Manv  reeled  with  weakness ;  most  were 
thin  past  belief,  their  drawn  skin  the  colour  of  a  de- 
cayed lemon.  From  this  sad  crowd  came  a  strange 
odour,  Uke  to  cheese,  and  yet  not  like  that.  Even  to 
remember  it  is  most  hon-ible.  Passing  near  to  a  stout 
old  Sister  of  Charity,  I  said  quietly : 

"I  have  friends  who  would  help  me.  For  God's 
lo^■e,  see  ]\liss  "Wynne  in  Arch  street,  across  from  the 
Meeting." 

'*  I  will  do  your  errand,"  she  said. 

"  Others  have  said  so,  sister,  and  have  lied  to  me." 

"  I  will  do  it,"'  she  said.     "  And  if  she  is  away  ? " 

I  thought  of  my  father,  lie  seemed  my  natural 
resource,  but  my  cousin  would  be  there.  A  final 
hope  there  was.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  say,  "If 
she  is  not  in  town,  then  Miss  Darthea  Peniston,  near 
by.     If  you  fail  me,  I  shall  curse  you  while  I  live." 

"  I  will  not  fail  you.  \Vliy  should  you  poor  pris- 
oners be  so  ill  used  ?    Trust  me." 

I  turned  away  satisfied,  remembering  that  when 
I  loft  Darthea  was  al>out  to  return.  If  she  came  to 
know,  that  would  be  enough.     I  had  faith  in  her 


328      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


friendsMp  and  in  her ;  and— if  ever  I  saw  her  again 
—should  I  tell  her  what  now  I  knew  of  Arthur 
Wynne  ?  I  learned  many  lessons  in  this  awful  place, 
and  among  them  caution.     I  would  wait  and  see. 

Both  Delaney  and  I  strongly  desired  an  exchange, 
and  not  merely  a  parole.  We  imagined  exchanges 
to  be  frequent.  My  own  dilemma,  Delaney  pointed 
out,  was  that  I  was  not  of  the  army,  although  I  had 
been  in  it.  And  so  we  speculated  of  things  not  yet 
come  about,  and  what  we  would  do  when  they  did 
come. 

The  next  day  went  by,  and  the  morning  after,  it 
being  now  February  19,  we  were  all  in  the  yard.  A 
turnkey  came  and  bade  me  follow  him.  I  went,  as 
you  may  imagine,  with  an  eager  heart,  on  the  way, 
as  I  hoped,  out  of  this  death  in  life.  As  I  questioned 
the  man,  he  said  there  was  an  order  for  a  lady  to 
see  me. 

Now  at  this  time  my  hair  was  a  foot  long,  and  no 
way  to  shear  it.  We  had  taken  the  blankets  of  the 
dead,  and  made  us  coats  by  tearing  holes  through 
which  to  thrust  our  arms.  Then,  as  we  lacked  for 
buttons,  or  string  for  points,  we  could  do  no  more 
than  wrap  these  strange  gowns  about  us  so  as  to 
cover  oiu"  rags. 

My  costume  troubled  me  little.  I  went  to  the  foul- 
smelling  room,  now  empty,  and  waited  until  the  man 
came  back.  As  he  opened  the  door,  I  saw  the  good 
Sister  of  Charity  in  the  hall,  and  then— who  but  Dar- 
thea  ?  She  was  in  a  long  cloak  and  great  muff,  and 
held  in  her  hand  a  winter  mask. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      329 


Seeins:  me  in  this  Line  blanket,  all  nnslioru,  and 
•with  what  beard  1  had  covering  my  face,  when  all 
men  but  Hessians  shaved  clean,  I  wonder  not,  I  say, 
that,  seeiug  this  trannt  scarecrow,  she  fell  back,  say- 
ing there  was  some  mistake. 

I  cried  out,  "Durthea!  Darthea!  Do  not  leave 
me.     It  is  I !     It  is  I,  Hugh  Wynne." 

"  My  God  !  "  she  cried,  "  it  is  Hugh  !  It  is !  it  is !  " 
At  this  she  cauglit  my  lean  yellow  hand,  and  went 
on  to  say,  "  Why  were  we  never  told  ?  Your  Aunt 
Wynne  is  away.  Since  we  thought  you  dead,  she  has 
ordered  mourning,  and  is  gone  to  her  farm,  and  leaves 
the  servants  to  feed  those  quartered  on  her.  But  you 
are  not  dead,  thank  God!  thank  God!  I  was  but 
a  day  come  from  New  York,  and  was  at  home  when 
the  dear  old  sister  came  and  told  me.  I  made  her 
sit  down  while  I  called  my  aunt.  Then  Arthur  came, 
and  I  told  him.  He  was  greatly  shocked  to  liear  it. 
He  reminded  me  that  some  while  before  he  had 
t<jld  me  that  he  had  seen  a  man  wlio  looked  like  you  in 
the  jail,  and  wasabout  to  die  ;  and  now  could  it— could 
it  have  been  you  ?  He  is  for  duty  at  the  forts  to-day, 
but  to-moiTow  he  will  get  you  a  parole.  He  supposed 
a  day  made  no  matter ;  at  all  events,  he  must  delay 
that  long.     I  never  saw  him  so  troubled." 

"Well  he  might  be,"  thought  I.  I  merely  said, 
"  Indeed  f"  But  I  must  have  looked  my  doubt,  for 
she  added  quickly : 

"Who  could  know  you,  Mr.  Wj-nne?" 

I  stood  all  this  while  clutcliing  at  my  blanket  to 
cover  my  tilth  and  rags,  and  she,  young  and  tender, 


33°      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

now  all  tears,  now  flashing  a  smile  in  between,  like 
the  pretty  lightning  of  this  storm  of  gentle  pity. 

"  And  what  fetched  you  here  to  this  awful  place  ? " 
I  said.     "  God  knows  how  welcome  you  are,  but—" 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "when  Arthur  went,  I  said  I 
would  wait,  but  I  could  not.  My  aunt  was  in  a  rage, 
but  I  would  go  with  the  dear  sister ;  and  then  I  found 
Sir  William,  and  Mr.  Montresor  was  there ;  and  you 
will  be  helped,  and  an  end  put  to  this  wickedness. 
But  the  parole  Arthur  will  ask  for— that  is  better." 

"  Darthea,"  I  said  hoarsely,  my  voice  breaking,  "  I 
have  been  here  since  early  in  October.  I  have  been 
starved,  frozen,  maltreated  a  hundred  ways,  but  I  can 
never  take  a  parole.  My  friend  Delaney  and  I  are 
agreed  on  this.  As  to  exchanges,  I  have  no  rank, 
and  I  may  be  a  year  inactive.  I  will  take  my  chance 
here."  I  think  death  had  been  preferable  to  a  parole 
obtained  for  me  by  Arthur  Wynne.  No ;  I  was  not 
made  of  my  father-rock  to  do  this  and  then  to  want 
to  kill  the  man.  I  could  not  do  that.  I  put  it  on 
the  parole.  Delaney  and  I  had  agreed,  and  on  this 
I  stood  firm. 

She  implored  me  to  change  my  mind.  "  How  ob- 
stinate you  are !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  never  change  ? 
Oh,  you  are  dreadfully  changed  !  Do  not  die  ;  you 
must  not."    She  was  strange  in  her  excitement. 

Then  I  thought  to  ask  to  have  Delaney  in,  and 
to  bid  him  tell  that  \ile  and  wicked  story;  but  it 
seemed  no  place  nor  time  to  hurt  her  who  had  so 
helped  me,  daring  to  do  what  few  young  women  had 
ever  dared  even  to  think  of.    As  I  hesitated,  I  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       3^1 

struck  with  a  thought  which  was  like  a  physical  pain. 
It  put  myself  and  the  other  wi*etched  business  quite 
out  of  my  head. 

"  O  Dartliea ! "  I  cried,  "  you  should  never  have 
come  here.  Go  at  once.  Do  not  stay  a  minute.  This 
is  a  house  poisoned.  Seven  died  of  fever  in  this  room, 
Writ^-  me  what  else  is  to  say,  but  *;o ;  and  let  me  have 
some  plain  clothes  from  home,  and  linen  and  a  razor 
and  scissors  and,  above  all,"  and  I  smiled,  "soap. 
But  go  !  go  !     Why  were  you  let  to  come  ? " 

'•  I  will  go  when  I  have  done.  Why  did  I  come? 
Because  I  am  your  friend,  and  this  is  the  way  I  read 
friendship.  Oh,  T  shall  hear  of  it  too.  But  let  him 
take  care ;  I  would  do  it  again,  iVnd  as  to  the  parole, 
he  shall  get  it  for  you  to-morrow,  if  you  like  it  or  not. 
I  will  write  to  you,  and  tlie  rest  you  shall  have ;  and 
now  good-l)y,  I  am  to  be  at  home  for  Mr,  Montre- 
sor  in  a  half-hour.  This  is  but  a  bit  of  pa\Tnent  for 
the  ugly  little  girl,  who  is  very  honest,  sir,  I  do  as- 
sure you," 

"  Do  go,"  I  cried.  "  And,  oh,  Darthea,  if  this  is 
your  friendsliip,  what  would  be  your  love  !  " 

"  Fie  !  fie  !     Ilush  !  "  she  said,  and  was  gone. 

In  two  hours  came  a  note,  and  I  learned,  for  I  had 
asked  to  hear  of  the  war,  that  Wasiiiugton  was  not 
dead.  We  had  been  told  that  he  was.  I  heard,  too, 
of  Burgoyne's  surrender,  news  now  near  to  five 
months  old,  of  Count  Donop's  defeat  and  death,  of 
the  fall  of  our  forts  on  the  Delaware,  of  Lord  C'orn- 
wallis  gone  to  England,  (if  failures  to  effect  exchanges. 
Then  she  went  on  to  write  :  "  Your  father  was,  strange 


332      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

to  say,  roused  out  of  a  sort  of  lethargy  by  the  news 
of  your  death.  Jack  managed  to  get  a  letter  to  your 
aunt  to  say  you  were  missing,  and  Arthur  had  search 
made  for  you ;  but  many  nameless  ones  were  buried 
in  haste,  and  he  could  not  find  your  name  on  the  lists 
of  prisoners."  None  had  been  made  to  my  knowledge. 
"  We  all  thought  you  dead.  Your  aunt  is  in  mourn- 
ing, but  only  of  late,  thinking  it  could  not  be  that 
you  were  lost  to  her.  It  is  well,  as  you  do  not  like 
your  cousin,  that  you  should  know  how  kind  he  has 
been,  and  what  a  comfort  to  your  father.  Indeed, — 
and  now  it  will  amuse  you,— he  told  Arthur,  you 
being  dead,  he  had  still  a  son,  and  would  consider 
Arthur  as  his  heir.  All  this  ought  to  make  you  think 
better  of  Ai-thur,  whom,  I  do  believe,  you  have  no 
reason  to  dislike.  I  beg  of  you  to  think  otherwise 
of  him ;  my  friends  must  be  his.  And  have  I  not 
proved  I  am  a  friend  ?  I  fear  I  cannot  at  once  get 
news  of  you  to  Mistress  Wynne,  who  has  gone  to 
live  at  the  Hill  Farm."  And  so,  with  other  kind 
words,  she  ended,  and  I,  putting  the  note  in  a  safe 
place,  sat  on  my  straw,  and  laughed  to  tliink  of  Ar- 
thm-'s  filial  care  and  present  disappointment. 

In  a  few  hours  came  the  turnkey,  quite  captured 
by  Darthea,  and  no  doubt  the  richer  for  a  good  fee 
He  fetched  a  portmantle  just  come,  and  an  order  to 
put  me  in  a  room  alone.  I  left  Delaney  with  sorrow, 
but  hoped  for  some  way  to  help  him.  In  an  hour  I 
was  clean  for  the  first  time  in  five  months,  neatly 
shaven,  my  hair  somehow  cut,  and  I  in  sweet  linen 
and  a  good,  plain  gray  suit,  and  a  beaver  to  match. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      333 

Then  I  stit  down  to  think,  the  mere  hope  of  escape 
making  me  weak,  and  what  came  of  it  you  shall  hear. 

The  next  day  I  was  ordered  forth  with  a  few 
others,  and,  luckily,  late  in  the  afternoon.  I  covered 
my  fine  clothes  with  the  blanket  and  went  out.  In 
the  yai'd.  just  before  our  time  was  up,  I  saw  tlie  sis- 
ter, to  my  deli<rht,  and  j)crceived  too,  with  joy,  that 
the  prisoners  did  not  rccoijnise  me,  decently  sliaven 
as  I  was.  Only  one  thin»^  held  me  back  or  made  me 
doubt  that  I  was  now  close  to  liberty :  I  was  so  feeble 
that  at  times  I  staggered  in  walking.  I  knew,  bow- 
ever,  that  when  mv  new  clothes  became  familiar  in 
the  jail  my  chance  of  o«;cape  would  be  over.  I  must 
take  the  present  opportunity,  and  tnist  to  luck. 

My  sclicme  I  had  clearly  thought  out.  I  meant, 
when  in  the  yard,  to  drop  the  blanket  cover,  and 
coolly  follow  the  .«;ister,  trusting  to  my  being  taken, 
in  my  new  gamients,  for  a  visitor.  It  was  simple, 
and  like  enough  to  succeed  if  my  strength  held  out. 
It  was  du.^k.  and  a  dark,  overclouded  day.  A  bell 
was  rung,  this  being  the  signal  for  the  gang  of 
prisoners  to  go  to  their  rooms.  Falling  back  a  little, 
I  cast  aside  the  blanket,  and  then  following  the  rest, 
was  at  once  in  the  hall,  dimly  lit  with  lanterns.  It 
was  some  eighty  feet  long.  Here  I  kept  behind  the 
group,  and  went  b(jldly  after  the  stout  sister.  No  one 
seemed  disposed  to  suspect  the  well-dressed  gentle- 
man in  gray.  I  went  by  the  turnkey,  keeping  my 
face  the  other  way.  I  was  some  fifteen  feet  from 
the  great  barred  outer  door.  The  two  sentries 
stepped  back  to  let  the  sister  go  by.     Meanwhile  the 


334      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

gate-keeper,  with  his  back  to  me,  was  busy  with  his 
keys.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  pulled  it  open.  A 
greater  lantern  hung  over  it.  I  was  aghast  to  see 
the  wretch,  Cunningham,  just  about  to  enter.  He 
was  sure  to  detect  me.  I  hesitated,  but  the  lookout 
into  space  and  lil)erty  was  enough  for  me.  The  beast 
feU  back  to  let  the  sister  pass  out.  I  dashed  by  the 
guards,  upset  the  good  woman,  and,  just  outside  of 
the  doorway,  struck  Cunningham  iu  the  face— a  blow 
that  had  in  it  all  the  gathered  hate  of  five  months  of 
brutal  treatment.  He  fell  back,  stumbling  on  the 
broad  upper  step.  I  caught  him  a  second  f  uU  in  the 
neck,  as  I  followed.  With  an  oath,  he  roUed  back 
down  the  high  steps,  as  I,  leaping  over  him,  ran 
across  Walnut  street.  One  of  the  outside  guards 
fired  wildly,  but  might  as  well  have  killed  some 
passer-by  as  me. 

Opposite  were  the  low  houses  afterward  removed 
to  enlarge  Independence  Square.  I  darted  through 
the  open  door  of  a  cobbler's  shop,  and  out  at  the  back 
into  a  small  yard,  and  over  paUngs  into  the  open 
space.  It  was  quite  dark,  as  the  day  was  overcast. 
I  ran  behind  the  houses  to  Fifth  street.  Here  I 
jumped  down  the  raised  bank  and  tui-ned  northward. 

Beside  me  was  a  mechanic  going  home  with  his 
lantern,  which,  by  military  law,  all  had  to  carry  after 
fall  of  night.  He  looked  at  me  as  if  in  doubt,  and 
I  took  my  chance,  saying,  ''Take  no  notice.  I  am 
a  prisoner  nin  away  from  the  jail." 

"  I  'm  youi-  man,"  lie  said.  "  Take  the  lantern,  and 
walk  with  me.    I  hear  those  devils."    And  indeed 


HughW^ynne:  Free  Quaker      335 

there  was  a  gn'eat  noise  ou  Walnut  street  and  in  the 
square.  Men  were  dimly  seen  running  to  and  fro, 
and  seizinjr  auv  who  had  no  lanterns. 

We  went  ou  to  Chestnut  street,  and  do^vn  to  Sec- 
ond.    I  asked  him  here  to  go  to  Dock  Creek  with  me. 

At  my  own  home  I  offered  him  my  last  guinea,  but 
he  said  No.  I  then  told  him  my  name,  and  desu-ed 
he  would  some  day,  in  better  times,  seek  me  out. 
And  so  the  honest  fellow  left  me.  Many  a  year  after 
he  did  come  to  me  in  debt  and  trouble,  and,  j'ou  may 
be  sure,  was  set  at  ease  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Looking  up,  I  saw  light  in  the  window,  and  within  I 
could  see  Arthur  and  three  other  oiBeers.  The  liquors 
and  decanters  were  on  a  table,  with  bread  and  cheese, 
plain  to  be  seen  by  hungry  eyes.  My  father's  bidky 
form  was  in  his  big  Penn  arm-chair,  his  head  fallen 
forward.  He  was  sound  asleep.  Colonel  Tarleton  had 
his  feet  on  a  low  stool  my  mother  used  for  her  bas- 
ket of  sewing  material  and  the  stockings  she  was  so 
constantly  darning.  Harcourt  and  Colonel  O'Hara 
were  matching  pennies,  and  my  cousin  was  standing 
by  the  fire,  speiiking  now  and  then,  a  glass  in  his 
hand. 

The  dog  asleep  in  the  stable  was  no  more  considered 
than  was  my  poor  father  by  these  insolent  guests. 
An  almost  overmastering  rage  possessed  me  as  I 
gazed  through  the  ])anes ;  for  no  one  had  closed  the 
shutters  as  was  usually  dom;  at  nightfall.  I  was 
hungry,  cold.  aii<l  weak,  and  these —  !  I  turned 
away,  and  went  down  the  bank  of  Dock  Creek  to 
the  boat-house.   It  was  locked,  and  this  uk^cI^  it  likely 


33^      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


my  boat  had  escaped  the  strict  search  made  by  the 
British.  No  one  being  in  sight,  I  went  around  the 
house  to  the  stable  at  the  farther  end  of  the  garden. 
As  I  came  near  I  smelc  the  smoke  of  our  old  Tom's 
pipe,  and  then  seeing  him,  I  called  softly,  "  Tom ! 
Tom ! » 

He  jumped  up,  crying,  "  Save  us,  Master  Hugh  !  " 
and  started  to  run.  In  a  moment  I  had  him  by 
the  arm,  and  quickly  made  him  understand  that  I 
was  alive,  and  needed  food  and  help.  As  soon  as 
he  was  recovered  from  his  fright,  he  fetched  me 
milk,  bread,  and  a  bottle  of  Hollands.  After  a 
greedy  meal,  he  carried  to  the  boat,  at  my  order, 
the  rest  of  the  pint  of  spirits,  oars,  paddle,  and 
boat-key.  On  the  way  it  occurred  to  me  to  ask  for 
Lucy.  She  had  been  seized  by  the  Hessian,  Von 
Heiser,  and  was  in  my  aunt's  stable.  I  had  not 
asked  about  the  mare  without  a  purpose ;  I  was  in 
a  state  of  intense  mental  clearness,  with  all  my 
wits  in  order.  In  the  few  minutes  that  followed  I 
told  Tom  not  to  let  any  one  know  of  my  coming, 
and  then,  pushing  off,  I  dropped  quietly  down  the 
creek. 

It  was  cold  and  veiy  dark,  and  there  was  some  ice 
afloat  in  smaU  masses,  amidst  which  my  boat,  turning 
with  no  guidance,  moved  on  the  full  of  the  ebb  tide 
toward  the  great  river.  For  about  two  hundred 
yards  I  drifted,  lying  flat  on  my  back.  At  the  outlet 
of  the  creek  was  a  sudden  turn  where  the  current 
almost  fetched  me  ashore  on  the  south  bank.  There 
from  the  slip  nearly  overhead,  as  the  boat  whirled 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      337 

aroimd,  I  hetird  a  sentiuel  ctill  out,  "  Stop  there,  or 
I  fire  !  "  I  remained  motionless,  feeling  sm-e  that  he 
would  not  risk  an  alarm  by  reason  of  a  skiff  gone 
adrift.  As  he  called  again  the  boat  slewed  around, 
and  shot,  stern  first,  far  out  into  the  gi-eat  flood  of 
the  Delaware.  Never  had  it  seemed  to  me  a  dearer 
friend.  I  was  free.  Cautiously  using  the  paddle 
without  rising,  I  was  soon  in  mid-river.  Then  I  sat 
up,  and,  taking  a  great  drink  of  the  gin,  I  rowed  up- 
stream in  the  dai'kness,  findiug  less  ice  than  I  had 
thought  probable. 

My  plan  now  was  to  pull  up  to  Burlington  or 
Bristol ;  but  I  soon  found  the  ice  in  gi-eater  masses, 
and  I  began  to  be  puzzled.  I  turned  toward  Jersey, 
and  hither  and  thither,  and  in  a  few  minutes  came 
upon  fields  of  moving  ice.  It  was  clear  that  I  must 
land  in  the  city,  and  take  my  chance  of  getting  past 
the  line  of  sentries.  I  pulled  cautiously  in  at  Arch 
street,  and  saw  a  sloop  lying  at  a  slip.  Lying  down,  I 
used  the  paddle  luitil  at  her  side.  Hearing  no  sound, 
I  climbed  up  over  her  low  rail,  and  made  fast  the 
boat.  I  could  see  that  no  one  was  on  deck.  A  lighted 
lantern  hung  from  a  rope  near  the  bow.  I  took  it 
down,  and  boldly  stepped  on  the  slij^  A  sentry, 
seeing  nif  come,  said,  "A  cold  night,  captain." 
"  Ver}',"  I  rejoined,  and  went  on  up  the  slope.  Chance 
had  favoured  me.  In  a  few  minutes  I  saw  m}-  aunt's 
hou.se,  shut  up,  but  with  a  light  over  the  transom  of 
the  hall  do(jr.  I  passed  on,  went  up  to  Third  street, 
around  to  the  back  of  the  premises,  and  over  the 
palings  into  the  long  garden  behind  the  dweUing. 


338      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

As  I  stood  reflecting  I  heard  Lucy  neigh,  and  no 
voice  of  friend  could  have  been  sweeter.  I  smiled 
to  think  that  I  was  a  man  in  the  position  of  a  thief, 
but  with  a  right  to  take  whatsoever  I  might  need. 
I  began  to  suspect,  too,  that  no  one  was  in  the  house. 
Moving  toward  it  with  care,  I  found  all  the  back 
doors  open,  or  at  least  not  fastened.  A  fire  burned 
on  the  kitchen  hearth,  and,  first  making  sure  of  the 
absence  of  the  servants,  I  shot  the  bolt  of  the  hall  door, 
fastened  the  pin-bolts  of  the  windows  which  looked 
on  the  front  street,  and  went  back  to  the  kitchen  with 
one  overruling  desire  to  be  well  warmed.  I  had  been 
cold  for  four  months.  Making  a  roaring  fire,  I 
roasted  myself  for  half  an  hour,  turning  like  a  duck 
on  a  spit.  Heat  and  good  bread  and  coffee  I  craved 
most.  I  found  here  enough  of  all,  but  no  liquors ; 
the  gin  I  had  finished,  a  good  pint,  and  never  felt  it. 
Still  feeling  my  weakness,  and  aware  that  I  needed 
all  my  strength,  I  stayed  yet  a  minute,  deep  in 
thought,  and  reluctant  to  leave  the  comfort  of  the 
hearth.  At  last  I  took  a  lantern  and  went  upstau's. 
The  china  gods  and  beasts  were  all  put  away,  the 
silver  tankards  and  plate  removed,  the  rugs  gone. 
My  good  Whig  aunt  had  done  her  best  to  make  her 
despotic  boarders  no  more  comfortable  than  she 
could  help.  All  was  neglect,  dust,  and  dirt ;  pipes 
and  empty  bottles  lay  about,  and  a  smell  of  stale  to- 
bacco smoke  was  in  the  air.     Poor  Aunt  Gainor ! 

Upstairs  the  general  had  moved  into  the  room 
sacred  to  her  spinster  slumbers.  The  servants  had 
taken  holiday,  it  seemed,  and  the  officers  appeared 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      339 

to  have  been  indifferent,  or  absent  all  day ;  for  this 
room  was  in  a  \'ile  condition,  with  even  the  bed  not 
yet  made  up,  and  the  curtains  torn.  In  this  and  the 
front  chamber,  used  commonly  as  my  aunt's  own 
sitting-room,  was  a  strange  litter  of  maps,  papers, 
and  equipments,  two  swords,  a  brace  of  inlaid  pistols, 
brass-plated,  two  Hessian  hats,  the  trappings  of  a 
Brunswick  chasseur,  and  a  long  military  cloak  ^vith 
a  gold-braided  regimental  niunber  under  a  large 
crown  on  each  shoulder.  A  sense  of  amusement  stole 
over  me,  although  I  was  so  tu*ed  I  could  have  fallen 
with  fatigue.  I  was  feeling  my  weakness,  and  suffer- 
iugf  rom  what  even  to  a  man  in  health  would  have  been 
great  exertion.  A  full  flask  of  rum  lay  on  the  table ; 
I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  lea\'ing  tlie  silver  cover.  Next 
I  put  on  the  long  cloak,  a  tall  Auhalter  helmet,  and 
a  straight,  gold-mounted  sword.  The  pistols  I  took 
ab^o,  loading  and  priming  them,  and  leaving  only 
the  lx)X  where  they  had  lain. 

It  was  now  almost  ten,  and  I  could  not  hope  to 
be  long  left  in  easy  possession.  Then  I  turned 
to  the  table.  Much  of  the  confused  mass  of  papers 
was  in  German.  I  put  in  my  pocket  a  beauti- 
fully drawn  map  of  our  own  lines  at  Valley  Forge. 
I  gave  it  to  .tVlexander  Hamilton  soon  after  the 
war. 

A  small  }iij»( — I  think  the  Germans  call  meer- 
schaum—I  could  not  despise,  nor  a  great  bundle  of 
tobacco,  which  I  thrust  into  the  inside  pouch  of  the 
cloak. 

Last  I  saw  a  sealed  letter  to  Lieutenant-Colonel 


340      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

— — — — ~- — ■ ■ — ■■■■'■' —  ■  '■'  II  --..  — -»■ 

Ernst  Ludwig  Wilhelm  von  Specht,  also  one  to  Colo- 
nel Montresor.  These  were  much  to  my  purpose. 
Finallj^,  as  I  heard  the  great  clock  on  the  stairway- 
strike  ten,  I  scribbled  on  a  sheet  of  paper  under  Von 
Knj'phausen's  arms,  "  Captain  Allan  McLane  presents 
his  compliments  to  General  von  Knyphausen,  and  / 
hopes  he  will  do  Captain  McLane  the  honour  to  re- 
tm-n  his  visit.— February  20,  1778,  10  p.  m." 

I  laughed  as  I  went  downstairs,  in  that  mood  of 
merriment  which  was  my  one  sign  of  excitement  at 
the  near  approach  of  peril.  A  pause  at  the  grateful 
fii*e,  and  a  moment  later  I  was  saddling  Lucy,  look- 
ing weU  to  girth  and  bit,  and  last  buckling  on  the 
spurs  of  a  Hessian  officer. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  trotting  up  Fifth  street. 
I  knew  only  that  the  too  extended  lines  had  been 
drawn  in  close  to  the  city,  after  the  sharp  lesson  at 
Germantown ;  but  I  did  not  know  how  complete  were 
the  forts  and  abatis  crossing  from  the  Delaware  to 
the  Schuylkill,  to  the  north  of  Callowhill  street.  I 
meant  to  pass  the  lines  somewhere,  trusting  to  the 
legs  of  Lucy,  who  well  understood  the  change  of 
riders,  and  seemed  in  excellent  condition. 

I  turned  off  into  the  fields  to  the  westward  at 
Vine  street,  riding  carefully  j  and  soon,  as  I  moved 
to  north,  saw  that  fences,  fruit-trees,  and  the  scat- 
tered remnant  of  the  wood  were  gone.  Stumbling 
through  mud  and  over  stumps,  I  began  to  see  before 
me  one  of  Montresor's  blockhouses,  and  presently,  for 
now  the  night  was  far  too  clear,  the  forms  of  sentries  on 
top.   Dismounting,  I  moved  aside  a  hundred  yards,  so 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      341 

that  I  passed  unseen  between  two  of  these  foi-ts.  But 
a  good  pit'ce  to  the  north  of  them  I  came  on  a  strong 
stockade,  and  saw  beyond  it  a  hazy  mass  of  what  I 
took  to  be  a  monster  t^mgle  of  dead  trees,  well  fitted 
to  delay  a  storming-party.  Then  I  remembered  my 
ride  with  Montresor.  I  was  caught.  I  stood  still  in 
the  night,  wondering  what  to  do :  behind  me  the  hum 
and  glow  of  the  city,  before  me  fi-eedom  and  dai"k- 
ness. 

A  man  thinks  quickly  in  an  Ijour  like  that.  I 
mounted,  feehng  the  lift  of  my  weak  body  an  exer- 
tion, and  rode  back  into  Vine,  and  so  to  Front  street. 
A  hundred  yards  before  me  was  a  great  camp-fire, 
to  left  of  where  the  road  to  Germanto^vTl  diverges, 
I  saw  figures  about  it  passing  to  and  fro.  I  felt 
for  my  pistols  in  the  holsters  of  the  saddle,  and 
cocked  the  one  on  my  right,  loosened  the  long 
straiglit  Ilossian  blade,  and  took  the  two  letters  in 
my  bridle-hand. 

As  I  rode  up  I  saw,  for  the  fire  was  brightly  blazing, 
that  there  were  tents,  pickets  to  left  and  right,  men 
afoot,  and  liorses  not  saddled.  A  sergeant  came  out 
into  the  road.  "  Halt !  "  he  cried.  In  V)roken  Eng- 
lish, I  said  I  had  a  letter  for  Colonel  i\Iontresor,  to 
be  given  in  the  morning  when  he  wouKl  be  out  to 
inspect  the  lines,  and  one  for  Lieutenant-Colonel  von 
JSpecht.  The  man  took  the  letters.  I  meant  to  turn 
back,  wheel,  and  go  by  at  speed  ;  but  by  evil  luck  a 
wind  from  the  north  blew  open  my  cloak,  and  in  the 
brilliant  firelight  he  saw  ray  gray  clothes. 

"  llolloa !  "  he  cried.     "  What  's  the  word  ?     You 


342      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

are  not  in  uniform.  Get  off !  "  So  saying,  he  caught 
the  rein  he  had  dropped,  a  man  or  two  running  to- 
ward us  as  he  spoke. 

If  I  could,  I  would  have  spared  the  man :  but  it 
was  his  life  or  mine  j  I  knew  that.  I  fii-ed  square  at 
his  chest,  the  mare  reared,  the  man  feU  with  a  cry, 
I  let  Lucy  have  both  spurs.  She  leaped  as  a  deer 
leaps,  catching  a  f  eUow  in  the  chest  with  her  shoulder, 
and  was  off  like  a  crazy  thing.  I  looked  ahead ;  the 
way  was  clear.  A  glance  back  showed  me  the  road 
full  of  men.  I  heard  shouts,  orders,  shot  after  shot. 
I  was  soon  far  beyond  danger,  and  going  at  racing 
speed  through  the  night ;  but  I  had  scared  up  a  plea- 
sant hornets'  nest.  The  last  picket  was  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ahead,  perhaps.  I  pulled  up,  and  with  diffi- 
culty made  the  mare  walk.  There  were  fii'es  on  both 
sides,  and  a  lot  of  alert  soldiers  out  in  the  road.  I 
turned  off  into  the  fields  behind  a  farm-house,  glad 
of  the  absence  of  fences.  The  next  moment  I  felt 
the  mare  gather  herself  mth  the  half -pause  every 
horseman  knows  so  well.  She  had  taken  a  ditch, 
and  prettily  too. 

Keeping  off  the  highway,  but  in  line  with  it,  I 
went  on  slowly,  leaning  over  in  the  saddle.  After 
a  mile,  and  much  stumbling  about,  I  ceased  to  hear 
noises  back  of  me,  and  turned,  approaching  the  road 
I  had  left.  No  one  was  in  sight.  Wliy  I  was  not 
followed  by  the  horse  I  know  not.  I  wrapped  my 
cloak  about  me,  and  rode  on  up  the  deserted  high- 
way. I  was  free,  and  on  neutral  ground.  All  I  had 
to  fear  was  an  encounter  with  one  of  the  foraging 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      343 

parties  which  kept  the  country  around  in  constant 
t^iTor.  I  met  no  one.  The  sole  unpleasant  thought 
which  haunted  my  cold  night  ride  was  the  face  of 
the  poor  devil  I  had  sh(>t.  I  put  it  aside.  Prison 
life  had  at  least  taught  me  the  habit  of  dismissing 
the  torment  of  vain  i*ctlcctit)n  on  an  irreparable  past. 

I  went  by  tlie  old  burying- ground  of  Germautown, 
and  the  rare  houses,  going  slowly  on  account  of  the 
road,  which  was  full  of  deep  holes,  and  so  through 
the  market-place  where  we  made  our  last  charge. 

At  last  I  breasted  the  slippery  rise  of  Chestnut 
Hill,  and  throwing  my  cloak  over  the  mare,  that  I 
had  taught  to  stand,  went  up  to  the  door  of  my  Aunt 
Gainor's  house. 

I  knocked  long  before  I  was  heard.  A  window 
was  opened  above  me,  and  a  voice  I  loved  called  out 
to  know  what  I  wanted.  I  replied,  "  It  is  I,  Hugh. 
Be  quick !  "  A  moment  later  I  was  in  her  dear  old 
anns,  the  serv'ants  were  called  up,  and  my  faithful 
Lucy  was  cared  for.  Then  I  fell  on  a  settle,  at  the 
limit  of  my  strength.  I  was  put  to  bed,  and  glad  I 
was  to  stay  there  for  two  days,  and  not  even  talk. 
Indeed,  what  with  good  diet  and  milk  and  spirits  and 
clean  sheets,  I  slept  as  I  had  not  done  for  many  a 
night. 

As  soon  as  I  was  up  and  fit  to  converse,  I  was 
made  to  tell  my  story  over  and  over.  Meanwhile 
my  aunt  was  desperately  afraid  last  we  should  })e 
visited,  as  was  not  rare,  by  foragers  or  Tory  par- 
tisans. I  must  go,  and  at  once.  Even  war  was  to 
be  preferred  to  this  anxiety.    But  before  I  went  she 


344      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

must  tell  me  what  slie  thought  of  this  strange  busi- 
ness of  my  cousin.  I  had  been  wise  not  to  tell 
Darthea.  A  rascal  like  Arthur  would  trip  himself 
up  soon  or  late.  Then  she  fell  to  thinking,  and, 
bidding  me  cease  for  a  little,  sat  with  her  head  in  her 
large  hands,  having  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"Hugh,"  she  said  at  last,  "he  must  have  more 
cause  to  be  jealous  than  we  know.  He  has  still  more 
now.  Is  it  only  the  woman!  Can  it  be  anything 
about  the  estate  in  Wales  ?  It  must  be ;  you  remem- 
ber how  he  bed  to  us  about  it ;  but  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  I  regret  the  loss  of  Wyncote,  and  that 
I  would  like  to  have  it.  I  am  afraid  I  found  it  plea- 
sant to  say  so,  seeing  that  it  annoyed  hun." 

"  I  wish  he  may  have  some  such  cause  to  hate  you, 
and  no  other.  But  why  ?  Your  grandfather  made 
a  legal  conveyance  of  an  unentailed  property,  got 
some  ready  money,— how  much  I  never  knew,— and 
came  away.  How  can  you  interfere  with  Arthur? 
The  Wynnes,  I  have  heard,  have  Welsh  memories 
for  an  insult.     You  struck  him  once." 

"  The  blow !  "  and  I  smiled.  "  Yes ;  the  woman ! 
Pray  God  it  be  that.  The  estate— he  is  welcome  to 
it.  I  hardly  think  a  Welsh  home  would  bribe  me  to 
leave  my  owti  country.  But  I  do  not  see,  aunt,  why 
you  so  often  talk  as  if  Wyncote  were  ours,  and  stolen 
from  us.     I  do  not  want  it,  and  why  should  11" 

"  Is  not  that  unreasonable,  Hugh  ? "  she  returned, 
with  more  quietness  in  the  way  of  reply  than  was 
usual  when  she  was  arguing.  "  You  are  young  now. 
The  anger  between  England  and  ourselves  makes  all 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      345 

thiug:s  in  Great  Britain  seem  hateful  to  you,  to  me, 
to  all  houest  colonials ;  but  this  will  not  last.  Peace 
will  come  one  day  or  another,  and  when  it  does,  to 
be  Wynne  of  Wyncote — " 

"  Good  gracious,  Aunt  Gainor !  let  us  set  this 
aside.  Arthur  Wynne's  lies  have  stirred  us  all  to 
think  there  nuist  be  some  reason  for  such  a  keen  de- 
sire to  mislead  me,  you,  and  my  father— above  all, 
mv  father.  But  it  is  mv  father's  business,  not  mine  ; 
nor,  if  I  may  be  excused,  is  it  yours." 

"That  is  true,  or  would  be  if  your  father  were 
well  or  interested.  He  is  neither— neither ;  and  there 
is  something:  in  the  matter.   I  shall  ask  my  brother." 

*'  You  have  done  that  before." 

"  I  have,  but  I  got  nothing.  Now  he  is  in  such  a 
state  that  he  may  be  more  free  of  speech.  I  think 
he  could  be  got  to  tell  me  what  neither  he  nor  my 
o^vn  father  liked  to  speak  of." 

Upon  this,  I  told  my  aunt  that  I  did  trust  she 
would  not  take  advantage  of  my  father's  weak  mind 
to  get  that  which,  when  of  wholesome  wits,  he  had 
seen  fit  to  conceal.     I  did  not  like  it. 

"Non.sen.'^e !  "  she  cried,  "nonsense  !  if  you  could 
have  the  old  home — " 

"  But  how  can  I  ?  It  is  like  promising  fairy  gold, 
and  I  don't  want  it.  I  should  like  to  go  there  once 
ami  see  it  and  my  cousins,  and  come  home  to  this 
country." 

I  was,  in  fact,  weary  of  the  thing,  and  my  aunt 
would  have  talked  it  over  all  day.  She  could  not 
aee  why  I  was  so  set  in  my  mind.     She  kept  urging 


346      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


that  something  would  turn  up  about  it,  and  we  should 
have  to  act ;  then  I  would  change  my  mind.  I  hardly 
knew  why  that  which  once  had  been  a  delightful  and 
mysterious  bait  now  lured  me  not  at  all.  What  with 
the  great  war,  and  my  own  matui'ity,  and  Darthea, 
Wyncote  had  shrunken  out  of  the  world  of  my  de- 
sires. It  was  too  dreamy  a  bribe  for  one  of  my  turn 
of  mind.  I  would  have  given  half  Wales  for  an  hour 
alone  with  Arthur  Wynne. 

Then  tlirough  my  meditations  I  heard,  "  Well,  mark 
my  word.  Master  Absolute;  there  is  some  flaw  in 
their  title,  and— and  soon  or  late—" 

"  Oh,  please,  aunt—" 

"Well,  do  not  make  up  your  mind.  I  am  afraid 
of  you  when  you  make  up  your  mind.  You  are  as 
set  in  your  ways  as  your  father.  Do  you  remember 
what  Nicholas  Wain  said  of  him:  'When  John 
Wynne  puts  down  his  foot,  thou  hast  got  to  dig  it 
up  to  move  him '  ? " 

She  was  right ;  nor  did  I  defend  myself.  I  laughed, 
but  was  sad  too,  thinking  of  my  poor  old  father, 
whom  I  could  not  see,  and  of  how  far  he  was  now 
from  being  what  his  friend  had  described. 

I  said  as  much.  My  aunt  replied,  "  Yes,  it  is  too 
true ;  but  I  think  he  is  less  unhappy,  and  so  thinks 
Dr.  Rush." 

After  this  our  talk  di-ifted  away,  and  my  aunt 
would  once  more  hear  of  my  note  in  McLane's  name 
left  for  the  Hessian  general.  "  I  hope  yet  to  ask  him 
of  it,"  she  cried,  "and  that  dear  Mr.  Andre— I  can 
see  his  face.     It  is  the  French  blood  makes  him  so 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      347 


gentle.  Catoh  him  for  me  in  the  war.  I  should  like 
to  have  him  on  parole  for  a  sLxmouth."  ^Vud  at  tliis 
she  laughed,  and  heartily,  as  she  did  most  things. 

WTien  this  talk  occurred  we  were  in  a  gi'eat  front 
room  in  the  second  story.  There  was  a  deep  bow- 
window  to  westward,  and  here  my  aunt  liked  to  be 
at  set  of  sun,  and  to  look  over  what  seemed  to  be  a 
boundless  forest ;  for  the  many  scattered  farms  were 
hid  away  in  their  woodland  shelters,  so  that  from 
this  vantage  of  height  it  looked  as  though  the  coun- 
try beyond  might  be  one  great  solitude.  Nearer 
were  well-tilled  farms,  on  which  the  snow  still  lay  in 
melting  drifts. 

As  we  sat,  I  was  smoking  the  first  tobacco  I  had 
had  since  I  left  the  jail.  This  habit  I  learned  long 
before,  and  after  once  falling  a  captive  to  that  con- 
soler and  counsellor,  the  pii)e,  I  never  gave  it  up.  It 
is  like  others  of  the  good  gifts  of  God :  when  abused 
it  loses  its  use,  which  seems  a  silly  phrase,  but  does 
really  mean  more  than  it  says.  Jack  hath  somewhere 
writ  that  words  have  souls,  and  are  alwavs  more  than 
they  look  or  say.  I  could  wish  mine  to  be  so  taken. 
And  as  to  tobacco  and  good  rum.  Jack  said— but  I 
forget  what  it  was— something  neat  and  pretty  and 
honest,  tliat  took  a  good  grip  of  you.  The  tricks  an 
old  fellow's  memory  plays  him  are  queer  enough.  I 
often  recall  the  time  and  place  of  something  clever 
a  friend  hath  said  long  ago,  but  when  I  try  to  get  it 
back,  I  have  but  a  sense  of  its  pleasantness,  as  of  a 
flavour  left  in  the  mouth,  while  all  the  wise  words 
of  his  saying  are  quite  forgot.    Dr.  Rush  thinks  that 


34^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

we  are  often  happy  or  morose  without  apparent  cause, 
when  the  mind  is  but  recalling  the  influence  of  some 
former  joy  or  grief,  but  not  that  which  created  either. 
The  great  doctor  had  many  hard  sayings,  and  tliis 
v/as  one. 

As  I  sat  reflecting,  I  felt  a  sudden  consciousness 
of  the  pleasure  my  tobacco  gave,  and  then  of  how 
delightful  it  was  to  be,  as  it  were,  growing  younger 
day  by  day,  and  of  how,  with  return  of  strength, 
came  a  certain  keenness  of  the  senses  as  to  odours, 
and  as  to  what  I  ate  or  drank.  It  seemed  to  me  a 
kind  of  reward  for  suffering  endm-ed  with  patience. 

My  Aunt  Gainor  sat  watcliing  me  with  the  pleasure 
good  women  have  over  one  too  weak  to  resist  being 
coddled.  When  I  had  come  to  this  happy  condition 
of  wanting  a  pipe,  as  I  had  jolted  out  of  my  pouch 
the  tobacco  I  stole,  she  went  off  and  brought  the  good 
weed  out  of  the  barn,  where  she  had  saved  her  last 
crop  under  what  scant  hay  the  Hessian  foragers 
left  her.  I  must  smoke  in  her  own  library,  a  thing 
unheard  of  before;  she  loved  to  smell  a  good  to- 
bacco. 

"  O  Aunt  Gainor !  " 

"  But  Jack !  "  she  said.  She  did  not  like  to  see 
Jack  with  a  pipe.  He  looked  too  like  a  sweet  girl, 
with  his  fair  skin  and  his  yellow  hair. 

I  smoked  on  in  mighty  j)eace  of  mind,  and  soon 
she  began  again,  being  rarely  long  silent,  "  I  hope 
you  and  your  cousin  will  never  meet,  Hugh." 

The  suddenness  of  this  overcame  me,  and  I  felt 
myself  flush. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      349 

"  Ah !  "  she  said,  "  I  knew  it.  There  is  little  love 
lost  between  you." 

*'  There  are  thingrs  a  man  cannot  forgive." 
"  Then  may  the  good  God  keep  yon  apart,  my  son." 
*'  I  tinist  not,"  said  I.  *•  I  can  forgive  an  insult, 
even  if  I  am  Welsh  and  a  Wynne ;  but  oh,  Aunt  Gai- 
nor,  those  added  weeks  of  misery,  foulness,  filth,  and 
pain  I  owe  to  this  man  !  I  will  kill  him  as  I  would 
kill  anv  otlier  vermin."  Then  I  was  ashamed,  for  to 
say  such  things  before  women  was  not  my  way. 

"  I  could  kill  hira  myself,"  said  my  aunt,  savagely. 
"And  now  do  have  some  more  of  this  nice,  good 
gniel,"  which  set  me  to  laughing. 

*'  Let  him  go,"  said  I,  "  and  the  gruel  too." 
"And  that  is  what  you  must  do,  sir.     You  must 
go.     I  am  all  day  in  terror." 

And  still  I  stayed  on,  pretty  easy  in  mind  ;  for  my 
aunt  had  set  a  fellow  on  watch  at  Mount  Airy,  to  let 
us  know  if  any  parties  a})i)eared,  and  we  kept  Lucy 
sjiddled.  I  sorely  needed  this  rest  and  to  be  fed  ;  for 
I  was  a  mere  shallow  of  my  big  self  when  I  alighted 
at  her  door  on  that  memorable  20th  of  February. 

The  day  bef (jre  I  left  this  deliglitfid  haven  between 
jail  and  camp,  came  one  of  ray  aunt's  women  slaves 
with  a  letter  slie  had  brought  from  the  city,  and  this 
was  what  it  said  : 

"  Dear  Mistress  Wynne  :  At  last  I  am  honoiired 
with  the  permission  to  write  and  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Hugh  Wynne  is  alive.  It  was  cruel  that  tlie  general 
would  not  earlier  grunt  me  so  small  a  favour  as  to 


350      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

pass  an  open  letter;  but  Arthur  found  much  diffi- 
culty, by  reason,  I  fear,  of  your  well-known  opinions. 
He  was  on  the  way  to  the  jail  when  he  heard  of  Mr. 
Hugh  Wynne's  having  escaped,  after  dreadfully  in- 
jaring  the  poor  man  who  took  such  good  care  of  him 
all  winter.  How  it  came  that  he  lay  five  months  in 
this  vile  abode  neither  Arthur  nor  I  can  imagine,  nor 
yet  how  he  got  out  of  the  town. 

"Arthur  tells  me  that  insolent  rebel,  Allan  McLane, 
broke  into  your  house  and  stole  the  beautiful  sword 
the  Elector  of  Hesse  gave  to  General  von  Knyphau- 
sen,  and  what  more  he  took  the  Lord  knows.  Also 
he  left  an  impudent  letter.  The  general  will  hang 
him  whenever  he  catches  him ;  but  there  is  a  proverb  : 
perhaps  it  is  sometimes  the  fish  that  is  the  better 
fisherman. 

"I  have  a  queer  suspicion  as  to  this  matter,  and 
as  to  the  mare  Lucy  being  stolen.  I  am  so  glad  it 
is  I  that  have  the  joy  to  tell  you  of  Mr.  Hugh  "Wynne's 
safety;  and  until  he  returns  my  visit,  and  forever 
after,  I  am,  madam, 

"  Your  devoted,  humble  servant, 

"  Darthea. 

"To  Mad"  Wynne, 
"At  the  Hill  Farm, 
"Chestnut  Hill." 

My  aunt  said  it  was  sweet  and  thoughtful  of  Dar- 
thea, and  we  had  a  fine  laugh  over  the  burglary  of 
that  bad  man,  McLane.  The  woman  went  back  with 
two  notes  stitched  into  the  lining  of  her  gown ;  one 
was  from  my  aunt,  and  one  I  wrote  j  and  to  this 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      351 


day  Darthea  aloue  knows  what  it  said.     God  bless 
her! 

It  was  Mju-ch  20  of  78  before  I  felt  myself  fuUy 
able  to  set  out  for  camp,  I  had  ruu  uo  g:reat  risk. 
The  country  had  beeu  ravaged  till  it  was  hard  to  find 
a  pig  or  a  cow.  Farmers  were  on  smiiU  rations,  and 
the  foragers  had  quit  looking  for  what  did  not  exist. 
One  dull  morning  I  liad  the  mare  saddled,  and  got 
ready  to  leave.  It  was  of  a  Friday  I  went  away ;  my 
aunt  as  un-willing  to  have  me  set  out  as  she  had  been 
eager  to  have  me  go  the  day  before.  My  Quaker 
training  left  me  clear  of  all  such  nonsense,  and, 
kissing  the  dear  lady,  I  left  her  in  teai's  by  the  road- 
side. 


XIX 


T  is  a  good  eighteen-mile  ride  to  Valley 
Forge  over  the  crooked  Perkiomen  road, 
which  was  none  the  better  for  the  break- 
ing up  of  the  frost.  I  rode  along  with  a 
light  heart,  but  I  was  watchful,  being  so 
used  to  disastrous  adventures.  Happily,  I  met  with 
no  difficulties. 

A  few  miles  from  the  bridge  General  Washington 
had  built,  I  fell  in  with  a  party  of  horse.  The  officer 
in  command  seemed  at  fii-st  suspicious,  but  at  last 
sent  me  on  with  two  troopers.  On  the  last  Sunday 
of  the  month  Friends  were  persistently  in  the  habit 
of  flocking  into  the  city  to  General  Meeting.  They 
were  not  unwelcome,  for  they  were  apt  to  carry  news 
of  us,  and  neither  we  nor  the  enemy  regarded  them 
as  neutrals.  Oui-  commander-in-chief,  in  an  order 
of  this  day,  declared  "  that  the  plans  settled  at  these 
meetings  are  of  the  most  pernicious  tendency,"  and 
on  this  account  directed  General  Lacy  "  that  the 
parties  of  light  horse  be  so  disposed  as  to  fall  in  with 
these  people." 

It  was  one  of  these  parties  of  horse  I  had  encoun- 
tered. The  officer  sent  me  on  with  a  guard,  and  thus, 
in  the  company  of  two  troopers,  I  rode  through  a 

3S^ 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      353 


fiiirly  wooded  coiuitrv  to  the  mueh-woru  road  leading 
down  to  the  river,  llere  my  guards  left  me  with  the 
picket  at  the  bridge.  It  was  a  hall'-hour  l^efore  the 
oflieer  here  stationed  was  satisfied,  and  meanwhile  I 
stared  aeross  the  Schuylkill  at  the  precipitous  bluffs, 
and  wondered  where  lay  the  army  which  had  passed 
the  winter  back  of  them.  A  few  men  along  the  far 
shore,  and  on  the  hill  beyond  a  little  redoubt,  were 
aU  the  signs  of  life  or  of  war  and  its  precautions. 
The  bridge,  over  wliich  presently  I  rode,  was  of  army 
waggons  weighted  with  stone,  and  on  top  rails  with 
rude  scantling.  On  the  high  posts  driven  into  the 
river-bed  for  stay  of  the  bridge  were  biu-ned  the 
names  of  the  favourite  genenils.  Once  over,  I  walked 
Lucy  up  a  cleft  in  the  shore  cliff,  and  came  out  on 
the  huts  of  General  Varnum's  brigade.  The  little 
world  of  an  army  came  iu  view.  1  was  on  the  first 
rise  from  the  stream,  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  south 
of  the  Valley  Creek.  To  westward  the  land  fell  a  lit- 
tle, and  then  rose  to  the  higher  slope  of  Mount  Joy. 
To  north  the  land  again  dropped,  and  rose  beyond  to 
the  deep  gulcli  of  the  Valley  Creek.  On  its  farther 
side  the  fires  of  a  picket  on  Mount  Misery  were  seen. 
Everywhere  were  regular  rows  of  log  huts,  and  on 
the  first  decline  of  every  hill  slope  intrenchments, 
ditches,  redoulits,  and  artillery.  Far  beyond,  this 
group  of  hills  fell  graduidly  to  the  rolling  plain.  A 
rnihi  away  were  the  long  outlying  lines  of  "Wayne, 
and  the  good  fellows  with  whom  I  had  charged  at 
Germantown. 

Everywhere  the  forests  were  gone.     Innumerable 

23 


354      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

'  *"  .I...  III.   — ^1— 11  .     .  I.,  .„. ..  .,  ^. 

camp-fires  and  a  city  of  log  huts  told  for  what  uses 
they  had  fallen.  On  the  uplands  about  me  ragged 
men  were  dialling;  far  away  I  heard  the  cavalry 
bugles.  A  certain  sense  of  elation  and  gaiety  came 
over  me.  It  lasted  no  long  time,  as  I  rode  Lucy  over 
the  limestone  hillocks  and  down  to  the  lesser  valley, 
which  far  away  fell  into  the  greater  vale  of  Chester. 

The  worst  of  the  winter's  trials  were  over,  and  yet 
I  was  horror-struck  at  the  misery  and  rags  of  these 
poor  fellows.  No  wonder  men  deserted,  and  officers 
were  resigning  in  scores,  desperate  under  the  appeals 
of  helpless  wife  and  family  in  far-away  homes.  It 
was  no  better  on  the  upland  beyond.  Everywhere 
were  rude  huts  in  rows,  woeful-looking  men  at  drill, 
dejected  sentries,  gaunt,  hungry,  ill  clothed,  with 
here  and  there  a  better-dressed  officer  to  make  the 
rest  look  all  the  worse. 

I  thought  of  the  grenadier  British  troops,  fat  and 
strong,  in  the  city  I  had  fled  from,  and  marvelled  to 
think  of  what  kept  them  from  sweeping  this  squalid 
mob  away,  as  a  housewife  switches  out  the  summer 
flies.  Full  of  thought,  I  rode  a  mile  through  the 
melting  drifts  of  snow,  and  came  on  Wayne's  brigade, 
which  held  the  lines  looking  in  this  direction. 

I  was  long  about  it ;  but  at  last  a  man  pointed  out 
a  hut,  and  I  went  in.     "  Holloa,  Jack ! "  I  cried. 

"  Hugh !  Hugh !  Where  on  earth  are  you  from  ? " 
And  he  flushed  as  he  used  to  do,  and  gave  me  a  great 
bear-hug,  saying,  "  And  you  are  not  dead !  not  dead ! 
Thank  God !  thank  God ! " 

Thus  again  we  met,  to  my  unspeakable  joy.    He 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      355 

was  about  as  lean  a^s  I  had  been,  but  on  the  whole, 
thanks  to  his  florid  skin,  looked  well  or  better  than 
tlie  best  of  that  half- fed  arm  v.  liow  we  talked,  how 
we  poured  out  our  news  that  cold  ]\Iarch  afternoon, 
I  shall  not  take  spa<?e  to  tell ;  nor  his  great  wonder 
at  seeing  nie  after  jdl  had  believed  nie  dead. 

After  supper  came  a  half-dozen  oflieei's,  and  I  heard 
all  the  L-auip  gossip,  and  was  made  heartily  welcome. 
Everything  was  on  the  mend,  they  said.  ISteuben 
was  di'iiling  the  men ;  Greene  was  the  new  and  elli- 
cient  quartermaster-general.  Supplies  were  pour- 
ing in.  Mrs.  Washington  and  Lady  Stirling  had 
come.  The  French  were  sure  to  make  a  treaty  with 
us.  As  they  talked  of  their  privations  I  learned, 
for  the  first  time,  of  the  full  horrors  of  the  winter 
camp  at  the  forge  in  the  valley.  There  was  stOl 
enougli  wretchedness  to  show  how  far  worse  must 
have  been  the  pitiable  condition  of  the  army  during 
that  winter  of  '77-78.  I  passed  the  next  day  at 
rest  with  Jack.  I  had  had  enougli  of  the  volunteer 
business,  and  determined,  to  Jack's  regret,  to  take 
service  ^sith  the  horse.  I  was  still  unfit  to  march, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  wise  for  this  reason  to  stick  to 
Lucy's  good  legs,  at  least  until  my  own  were  in  better 
order. 

I  think  Jack  felt  that  he  was  under  some  necessity 
to  take  care  of  me,  or  from  that  affection  he  has  ever 
shown  desired  to  keep  me  near  him.  He  only  hoped 
I  would  not  incline  to  join  McLane's  troop,  and  when 
I  asked  why,  declaring  that  to  be  ray  utmost  deshe, 
he  said  it  was  a  service  of  needless  peril. 


356      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Upon  this  I  laughed  so  that  the  hut  shook,  and 
poor  Jack  became  quite  disconcerted,  and  fell  to 
making  a  variety  of  excuses.     It  is  of  this  he  says : 

"  Hugh  is  come  from  death,  and  there  is  more  to 
live  for.  For  me,  that  am  often  unready  and  weak, 
here  is  again  his  ever  just  helpfulness.  He  is  but 
a  shadow  of  himself,  and  I  cannot  wonder  that  he  is 
so  bitter  against  the  enemy,  or  that  he  desires,  less 
on  account  of  his  bodily  feebleness  than  from  a  wish 
to  revenge  his  cruel  treatment,  to  serve  with  the 
horse.  They  are  never  more  quiet  than  gadflies.  It 
is  dangerous  duty,  and  should  it  cost  this  dear  life, 
how  shall  I  ever  face  Mistress  Wynne  ? " 

I  myself  had  but  one  thought  in  my  own  mind 
this  Sunday  in  March,  as  I  rode  through  the  east 
wind.  It  is  my  way,  and  always  was,  to  have  but  a 
single  idea  in  mind,  and  to  go  straight  to  my  object 
the  nearest  way.  He  was  right  in  his  belief  that  it 
was  my  burning  wish  to  pay  the  debts  of  my  poor 
abused  body.  I  knew  not  when  we  should  move, 
and  the  dislike  of  tiresome  drills  under  Steuben,  with 
a  restless,  perhaps  a  wholesome,  instinct  to  lead  a 
more  active  life,  conspired  to  make  my  hatred  seem 
reasonable. 

I  could  see,  as  I  rode  along  through  the  canton- 
ment and  the  long  lines  of  huts,  how  well  chosen  was 
the  valley  camp.  The  SchuylkiU  flowing  from  the 
Blue  HUIs  turned  here  to  eastward,  the  current  was 
deep,  the  banks  were  high  and  precipitous.  To  the 
west,  in  a  deep  gorge,  the  Valley  Creek  protected  the 
camp.     Running  down  from  Mount  Joy,  a  broad 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      357 

spur  turned  nortbwai'd  to  the  Schuylkill.  Between 
this  ridge  and  the  river  lay  an  angular  table-laud, 
taUiug  to  the  vallej'  beyond.  Along  this  ridge,  and 
high  on  Mount  Joy,  were  the  intrenehnients  laid  out 
by  Du  Portiiil^  and  within  them  were  the  camps  of 
rare  tents  and  the  rows  of  wooden  huts. 

Riding  north  amid  the  stimips  and  the  lessening 
drifts  of  snow,  past  the  dark  huts,  and  the  files  of 
ragged  men  in  hue  for  moruiug  service,  I  came  down 
to  the  angle  between  the  Valley  C!reek  and  the  Schuyl- 
kill. The  river  was  full,  and  ran  a  gray-brown  flood. 
"VMiere  the  trampled  slope  rose  from  the  creek  I 
came  upon  a  small  but  solid  house,  built  of  gi'ay 
and  niddy  sandstones,  a  quaint,  shell-curved  pent- 
house above  the  open  doorway.  Here  were  horses 
held  by  orderlies,  the  blue  and  white  of  French  uui- 
fonus,  buff-and-blue  officers,  and  the  giuird  of  fifty 
light  horse  on  a  side  road  in  the  saddle,  facing  the 
house.  I  knew  I  had  found  the  headquarters.  Look- 
ing about,  I  saw,  to  my  joj-,  Mr.  Hamilton  talking 
with  some  of  our  allies.  I  rode  up,  and  as  they 
turned,  I  said,  "I  am  Mr.  Hugh  Wynne,  Colonel 
Hamilton." 

"  Good  heavens,  sir !  You  are  not  dead  then,  after 
aU!" 

"  No,"  I  said,  laughing ;  "  I  am  alive,  thank  you. 
I  have  been  in  prison  for  months,  and  I  am  come 
now  to  ask  for  that  commission  in  the  light  horse 
al>out  which  I  must  beg  you  to  remind  his  Excel- 
lency." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  he,  "  I  did  not  recognise  you. 


358      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

We  are  now  going  to  morning  service,  I  will  see 
to  it  at  once.  We  thought  you  dead.  Indeed,  his 
Excellency  wrote  to  Mistress  Wynne  of  you.  The 
general  has  full  powers  at  last,  and  you  are  sure  of 
your  commission.     Now  I  must  leave  you." 

A  few  more  needed  words  were  said,  and  I  drew 
aside  to  see  the  staff  ride  away.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  young  aide  came  back. 

"  You  may  join  McLane  at  once.  You  will  have 
an  acting  commission  untU  a  more  formal  one  reaches 
you.     I  suppose  you  have  no  news  ? " 

"  None,"  I  said,  **  except  of  how  a  British  jail  looks." 

"  His  Excellency  desires  your  company  at  dinner 
to-day  at  six." 

I  said  I  had  no  uniform. 

"  Look  at  mine,"  he  cried,  laughing.  "  I  have  only 
one  suit,  and  the  rest  are  hardly  better  off." 

I  drew  back  and  waited.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
general  came  out,  and  mounting,  sat  stUl  until  all  of 
the  staff  were  in  the  saddle. 

He  had  changed  greatly  from  the  fresh,  clear- 
skinned  country  gentleman  I  saw  fu'st  in  Philadel- 
phia. His  face  was  more  grave,  his  very  ruddy  skin 
less  clear  and  more  bronzed.  I  observed  that  his 
eyes  were  deep  set,  light  blue  in  colour,  and  of  un- 
usual size ;  his  nose  was  rather  heavy  and  large ;  the 
mouth  resolute  and  firm,  with  full  lips.  His  general 
expression  was  sedate  and  tranquil.  In  full,  neat 
buff  and  blue,  his  hair  powdered,  the  queue  carefully 
tied,  he  sat  very  erect  in  the  saddle,  and  looked  to 
be  a  good  horseman. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      359 

This  is  all  I  remember  at  that  time  of  this  high- 
minded  gentleman.  I  heard  much  of  him  then  and 
later ;  and  as  what  I  heai'd  or  saw  varies  a  good  deal 
from  tlie  idea  now  held  of  liiiu,  I  shall  not  refrain 
from  saying  how  he  seemed  to  us,  who  saw  him  in 
camp  and  lield,  or  in  tlie  horn*  of  rare  leisure.  But 
I  sliall  do  better,  perhaps,  just  now  to  let  my  friend 
Siiy  what  he  seemed  to  be  to  his  more  observant  and 
reflective  mind.     It  was  writ  long  after. 

**  Abler  pens  tlian  mine,"  says  Jack,  "  have  put  on 
record  the  son-owf ul  gloiy  of  that  dreadful  camp- 
gi'ound  by  Valley  Forge.  It  is  strongly  charactered 
in  those  beseeching  lettei*s  and  despatches  of  the  al- 
most heartbroken  man,  who  poured  out  his  grief  in 
Language  wLich  even  to-day  no  man  can  read  un- 
moved. To  us  he  showed  only  a  gi-avely  tranquil 
face,  which  had  in  it  something  which  reassured 
those  starving  and  naked  ones.  Most  wonderful  is 
it,  as  I  read  what  he  wrote  to  inefficient,  blundering 
men,  to  see  how  calmly  he  states  our  pitiful  case,  how 
entirely  he  controls  a  nature  violent  and  passionate 
beyond  that  of  most  men.  He  was  scarcely  in  the 
saddle  as  commander  before  the  body  which  set  him 
there  was  filled  with  dissatisfaction. 

"I  think  it  well  that  we  know  so  Uttle  of  what 
went  on  within  the  wjills  of  Congress.  The  silence 
of  history  has  been  friendly  to  many  reputations. 
There  need  be  no  silence  as  to  this  man,  nor  any 
concealment,  and  there  has  been  much.  I  would  have 
men  see  him  as  we  saw  him  in  his  auger,  when  no 
language  was  too  strong;   in  hia  hour  of  sereno 


360      Hugh  Wynne;  Free  Quaker 


kindliness,  when  Hamilton,  the  aide  of  twenty,  was 
'my  boy';  in  this  starving  camp,  with  naked  men 
shivering  all  night  in  their  blankets  by  the  fires, 
when  'he  pitied  those  miseries  he  could  neither  relieve 
nor  prevent.'  Am  I  displeased  to  think  that  although 
he  laughed  rarely  he  liked  Colonel  Seammel's  strong 
stories,  and  would  be  amused  by  a  song  such  as  no 
woman  should  hear  ? 

"  This  serene,  inflexible,  decisive  man,  biding  his 
hour,  could  be  then  the  ventm-esome  soldier,  willing 
to  put  every  fortune  on  a  chance,  risking  himself 
with  a  courage  that  alarmed  men  for  his  life.  Does 
any  but  a  fool  think  that  he  could  have  been  all  these 
things  and  not  have  had  in  him  the  wild  blood  of 
passion  1  He  had  a  love  for  fine  clothes  and  show. 
He  was,  I  fear,  at  times  extravagant,  and,  as  I  have 
heard,  could  not  pay  his  doctor's  bill,  and  would 
postpone  that,  and  send  him  a  horse  and  a  little 
money  to  educate  his  godson,  the  good  doctor's  son. 
As  to  some  of  his  letters,  they  contained  jests  not 
gross,  but  not  quite  fit  for  grave  seigniors  not  virgini- 
his  puerisque.  There  is  one  to  Lafayette  I  have  been 
shown  by  the  marquis.  It  is  most  amusing,  but— 
oh,  fie !  Was  he  rehgious  ?  I  do  not  know.  Men 
say  so.  He  might  have  been,  and  yet  have  had  his 
hours  of  ungoverned  rage,  or  of  other  forms  of  hu- 
man weakness.  Like  a  friend  of  mine,  he  was  not 
given  to  speech  concerning  his  creed." 

My  Jack  was  right.  Our  general's  worst  foes  were 
men  who  loved  their  country,  but  who  knew  not  to 
comprehend  this  man.   I  well  remember  how  I  used 


Huirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       ^61 


J' 


to  stop  at  the  camp-fires  and  heai-  the  men  talk  of 
him.  Here  was  no  lack  of  sturdy  sense.  The  notion 
of  Adams  and  Kush  of  appointing;:  new  major-generals 
every  year  much  amiu^ed  them,  and  the  shai'p  logic 
of  cold  and  empty  bellies  did  not  move  them  from 
tlie  heUef  that  tlieii-  chief  was  the  right  man.  How 
was  it  they  could  judge  so  well  and  these  others  so 
ill? 

lie  had  no  tricks  of  the  demagogue.  He  coveted 
no  popuhirity.  He  knew  not  to  seek  favour  by  going 
freely  ajnong  the  men.  The  democratic  feeling  in 
om*  anny  was  intense,  and  yet  this  reserved  aristo- 
crat liad  to  the  end  the  love  and  confidence  of  every 
soldier  iu  the  ranks. 


I  SHALL  pass  lightly  over  the  next  two 
months.  I  saw  Jack  rarely,  and  McLane 
kept  us  busy  with  foraging  parties  and 
incessant  skirmishes.  Twice  we  rode  dis- 
guised as  British  troopers  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  city,  and  at  night  as  far  down  as  Second 
street  bridge,  captured  a  Captain  Sandford  and  car- 
ried him  off  in  a  mad  ride  through  the  pickets.  The 
life  suited  maid  Lucy  and  myself  admii-ably.  I  grew 
well  and  strong,  and,  I  may  say,  paid  one  of  my  debts 
when  we  stole  in  and  caught  a  rascal  named  Varnum, 
one  of  oui'  most  cruel  turnkeys.  This  hulking  coward 
went  out  at  a  run  through  the  lines,  strapped  behind 
a  trooper,  near  to  whom  I  rode  pistol  in  hand.  We 
got  well  peppered  and  lost  a  man.  I  heard  Varnum 
cry  out  as  we  passed  the  outer  picket,  and  supposed 
he  was  alarmed,  as  he  had  fair  need  to  be. 

We  pulled  up  a  mile  away,  McLane,  as  usual,  laugh- 
ing like  a  boy  just  out  of  a  plundered  apple-orchard. 
To  my  horror  Varnum  was  dead,  with  a  baU  through 
his  brain.  His  arms,  which  were  around  the  trooper's 
waist,  were  stiffened,  so  that  it  was  hard  to  unclasp 
them.  This  rigidness  of  some  men  killed  in  battle 
I  have  often  seen. 

362 


Huirh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       ':6 


J 


On  Saturday,  the  16th  of  May,  Marqiiis  Lafayette 
came  to  oiir  liutt;  aud  asked  me  to  walk  apart  with 
him.  We  spoke  French  at  his  request,  a*;  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  overheard,  and  tiilked  English  but  ill.  He 
said  his  Excellency  desired  to  have  fuller  knowledge 
of  the  forts  on  the  Neck  and  at  the  lower  ferry,  as 
well  as  some  intelligence  as  to  the  upper  lines  north 
of  the  town.  Mr.  Hamilton  thought  me  very  tit  for 
the  affair,  but  the  gcneral-in-chief  had  said,  in  his 
kind  way,  that  I  had  suffei-ed  too  much  to  put  my 
neck  in  a  noose,  and  that  I  was  too  well  known  in 
the  town,  although  it  seemed  to  him  a  good  choice. 

When  the  marquis  had  said  his  say  I  remained 
silent,  until  at  last  he  added  that  I  was  free  to  refuse, 
and  none  woidd  tliink  the  worse  of  me ;  it  was  not 
an  order. 

I  replied  that  I  was  only  thinking  how  I  should  doit. 

He  laughed,  and  declared  he  had  won  a  guinea  of 
Mr.  Hamilton.  "I  did  bet  on  your  face,  Monsieur 
Vynue.  I  make  you  my  compliments,  and  shall  I 
say  it  is  '  Yes '  T " 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  shall  go  to-morrow,  Sunday."  And 
with  this  he  went  away. 

Wlien  I  told  McLane  he  said  it  was  a  pity,  because 
the  redeoats  were  to  have  a  grand  fandango  on  the 
18th,  and  ho  meant  to  amuse  himself  that  evening, 
which  he  did  to  some  puqiosc,  as  you  shall  hear. 

I  spent  the  day  in  buying  from  a  farmer  a  full 
Quaker  dress,  and  stained  my  face  that  night  a  fine 
brownish  tint  with  stale  pokeberry  juice.  It  was  all 
the  ink  we  had. 


364      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


Very  early  on  the  17th  I  rode  at  dawn  with  a 
trooper  to  my  aunt's  house,  and  in  the  woods  back 
of  it  changed  my  clothes  for  the  Quaker  rig  and 
broad-brimmed  hat.,  To  my  delight,  my  aunt  did  not 
know  me  when  I  said  I  wanted  to  buy  her  remaining 
cow.  She  was  angry  enough,  until  I  began  to  laugh 
and  told  her  to  look  at  me.  Of  course  she  entreated 
me  not  to  go,  but  seeing  me  resolved,  bade  me  take 
the  beast  and  be  off.  She  would  do  without  milk ; 
as  for  me,  I  should  be  the  cause  of  her  death. 

I  set  out  about  six  with  poor  Sukey,  and  was  so 
bothered  by  the  horrible  road  and  by  her  desire  to 
get  back  to  her  stall  that  it  was  near  eleven  in  the 
morning  before  we  got  to  town.  As  usual,  food  was 
welcome,  and  a  trooper  was  sent  with  me  to  the 
commissary  at  the  Bettering-house,  where  I  was  paid 
three  pounds  six  after  much  sharp  bargaining  in 
good  Quaker  talk.  A  pass  to  return  was  given  me, 
and  with  this  in  my  pocket  I  walked  away. 

I  went  through  the  woods  and  the  Sunday  quiet  of 
the  camps  without  trouble,  saying  I  had  lost  my  way, 
and  innocently  showing  my  pass  to  everybody.  Back 
and  to  south  of  the  works  on  Callowhill  were  the  Hes- 
sians and  the  Fourth  foot.  The  Seventh  and  Four- 
teenth British  Grenadiers  lay  from  Delaware 
Seventh  to  westward ;  the  Yagers  at  Schuylkill  Third 
street,  or  where  that  would  be  on  Mr.  Penn's  plan ; 
and  so  to  Cohocsink  Creek  dragoons  and  foot.  Nortii 
of  them  were  Colonel  Montresor's  niue  blockhouses, 
connected  by  a  heavy  stockade  and  abatis,  and  in 
front  of  this  chevaux-de-frise  and  the  tangled  mass 
of  dead  trees  which  had  so  beaten  me  when  I  escaped. 


HughWVnne:  Free  Quaker       365 

The  stockade  and  the  brush  aud  the  tumbled  fruit- 
trees  were  dry  from  loug  exposure,  aud  were,  i 
thought,  well  litted  to  defy  attack. 

I  turued  west  again,  aud  Aveut  out  to  the  Schuyl- 
kill River,  where  at  the  up})er  ferry  was  now  a  bridge 
with  another  fort.  Then  I  walked  southward  along 
the  stream.  The  guards  on  the  river-l^ank  twice 
turned  me  back;  but  at  last,  taking  to  the  Avoods,  I 
got  into  the  open  farm  country  beyond  South  Street, 
and  before  dark  climbed  a  dead  ]iine  and  was  able 
to  see  the  fort  near  to  !Mr.  Andrew  Hamilton's  seat 
of  the  Woodlands,  set  high  above  tlie  lower  ferry, 
which  was  now  well  bridged. 

Pretty  tired,  I  lay  down  awhile,  and  then  strolled 
off  into  town  to  get  a  lodging.  When  past  Walnut 
street  I  found  the  streets  unusually  full.  I  had  of 
purpose  chosen  First-day  for  my  errand,  expecting 
to  find  our  usual  Sunday  quiet,  but  the  licence  of  an 
array  had  changed  the  ways  of  this  decorous  town. 
Every  one  had  a  lantern,  which  gave  an  odd  look 
of  festivity,  and,  to  comply  with  the  military  rule,  I 
bought  me  a  lantern.  Men  were  crj'ing  tickets  for 
the  play  of  the  '*  Mock  Doctor"  on  Tuesday,  and  for 
Saturday,  "The  Deuce  is  in  Him  ! "  Others  sold  places 
for  the  race  on  Wednesday,  and  also  hawked  almanacs 
and  Tor}'  broa<lsides.  The  stores  on  Second  street 
were  open  and  well  lighted,  and  the  coffee-house  was 
full  of  redcoats  carousing,  while  loose  women  tapped 
on  the  Avindows  and  gathered  at  the  doors.  .^Vll 
seemed  meny  and  prosperous.  Here  and  there  a 
8taid  Quaker  in  drab  walked  u])  the  busy  street  on 
his  homeward  wa}',  undistracted  by  the  merriment 


366      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


and  noise  of  the  thronged  thoroughfare.  A  dozen  red- 
coats went  by  to  change  the  guards  set  at  the  doors 
of  general  officers.  A  negi-o  paused  on  the  sidewalk, 
crying,  "  Pepper-pot,  smoking  hot ! "  Another  offered 
me  the  pleasant  calamus-root,  which  in  those  days 
people  liked  to  chew.  A  man  in  a  red  coat  walked 
in  the  roadway  ringing  a  bell  and  crying,  "Lost 
child !  "  Sedan-chairs  or  chaises  set  down  officers. 
The  quiet,  sedate  city  of  Penn  had  lost  its  air  of  de- 
mure respectability,  and  I  felt  like  one  in  a  strange 
place.  This  sense  of  ahen  surroundings  may  have 
helped  to  put  me  off  my  guard ;  for,  because  of  being 
a  moment  careless,  I  ran  a  needless  risk.  Over  the 
way  I  saw  two  blacks  holding  lanterns  so  as  to  show 
a  great  bill  pasted  on  a  wall.  I  crossed  to  look  at 
it.  Above  was  a  Latin  motto,  which  I  cannot  now 
recall,  but  the  body  of  it  I  remember  weU : 

"  All  Intrepid,  able-bodied  Heroes  who  are  willing 
to  serve  against  the  Ai-bitrary  Usurpations  of  a 
Tyranickal  Congress  can  now,  by  enlisting,  acquire 
the  polite  Accomplishments  of  a  Soldier. 

"  Such  spirited  Fellows  will,  besides  their  Pay,  be 
rewarded  at  the  End  of  the  War  with 

Fifty  Acres 
of  Land, 
To  which  every  Heroe  may  retire  and  Enjoy  His 
Lass  and  His  Bottle." 

This  so  much  amused  me  that  I  stood  stiU  to  gaze ; 
for  below  it  was  seen  the  name  of  an  old  schoolmate, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      367 

William  Allen,  now  a  lieutenant-colonel,  in  want  of 
Tory  recruit:*. 

I  felt  suddenly  a  rousing  whack  on  the  back,  and 
turning  in  a  rage,  saw  two  drunken  grenadiers, 

"Join  the  liarniy,  friend;  make  a  cussed  fine 
Quaker  bombardier," 

I  inst^mtly  cooled,  for  people  began  to  stop,  pleased 
at  the  fun  of  baiting  a  Quaker.  The  others  cried, 
"  Give  us  a  drink,  old  Thee-and-Thou !  "  Some  sol- 
diei-s  paused,  hoping  for  a  ring  and  a  fight.  I  was 
pushed  about  and  hustled.  I  saw  that  at  any  mo- 
ment it  might  end  ill.  I  had  a  mighty  mind  toward 
anything  but  non-resistance,  but  still,  fearing  to  hit 
the  fellows,  I  cried  out  meekly,  ''Thou  art  wrong, 
friends,  t^^  oppress  a  poor  man."  Just  then  I  heard 
William  AUen's  voice  back  of  me,  crying,  "Let  that 
Quaker  alone  !  "  As  he  quickly  exercised  the  author- 
ity of  an  officer,  the  gathering  crowd  dispersed,  and 
the  grenadiers  staggered  away.  I  was  prompt 
enough  to  slip  down  High  street,  glad  to  be  so  well 
out  of  it. 

At  the  inn  of  the  "  Bag  of  NaUs,"  on  Front  street, 
I  found  a  number  of  Friends,  quiet  over  their  Hol- 
lands. I  sat  do^vn  in  a  dark  corner,  and  would  have 
had  a  well-earned  bowl ;  but  I  was  no  sooner  seatod 
than  in  came  a  man  with  a  small  bell,  and,  walking 
among  the  guests,  rang  it,  saying,  ''  It  is  half  after 
ten,  and  there  will  be  no  more  liquor  served.  No 
more !  no  more !  " 

I  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  break  this 
decree,  and  therefore  contented  myself  with  cold 


368      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

beef  and  cole-slaw.  I  went  to  bed,  and  thought 
over  the  oddity  of  my  being  helped  by  William  Allen, 
and  of  how  easily  I  might  have  been  caught. 

In  washing  next  morning  I  was  off  my  guard,  and 
got  rid  of  the  most  of  my  pokeberry  juice.  I  saw 
my  folly  too  late,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  I 
resolved  to  keep  my  wide  brim  well  down  over  my 
face,  seeing  in  a  mirror  how  too  much  like  my  own 
self  I  had  become. 

I  settled  my  score  and  went  out,  passing  down  the 
river-front.  Here  I  counted  and  took  careful  note  of 
the  war-ships  anchored  all  the  way  along  the  Dela- 
ware. At  noon  I  bought  an  "  Observer,"  and  learned 
that  Mr,  Howe  had  lost  a  spaniel  dog,  and  that 
there  was  to  be  a  great  festival  that  night  in  hon- 
our of  Sir  William  Howe's  departure  for  England. 
Would  Darthea  be  there?  I  put  aside  the  temp- 
tation to  see  that  face  again,  and  set  about  learn- 
ing what  forts  were  on  the  neck  of  land  to  south, 
where  the  two  rivers,  coming  together  at  an  angle, 
make  what  we  call  the  Neck.  It  was  a  wide  lowland 
then,  but  partly  diked  and  crossed  by  many  ditches ;  a 
marshy  country  much  like  a  bit  of  Holland,  with  here 
and  there  windmills  to  complete  the  resemblance. 

It  was  so  open  that,  what  with  the  caution  required 
in  approaching  the  block  forts  and  the  windabout 
ways  the  ditches  made  needful,  it  was  late  before  I 
got  the  information  I  needed.  About  nine  on  this 
18th  of  May,  and  long  after  dusk,  I  came  upon  the 
lower  fort,  as  to  which  the  general  was  desirous  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      369 

more  complete  knowledire.    I  walked  around  it,  and 
wa<;  at  last  ordered  off  by  the  guards. 

^Iv  errand  was  now  nearly  done.  Mv  wav  north 
took  me  close  to  Walnut  Grove,  the  old  countiy-seat 
of  my  father's  friend,  Joseph  Wharton,  whom,  on 
account  of  his  hau«rlity  ways,  the  world's  people 
wickedly  called  the  QuiUier  duke.  The  noise  of  people 
come  to  see,  and  the  faint  strains  of  distant  music, 
had  for  an  hour  reniiudod  me,  as  I  came  nearer  the 
crardens  of  Walnut  Grove,  that  what  McLane  had 
called  the  creat  fandango  in  honour  of  Sir  William 
Howe  was  in  full  activity.  Here  in  the  tall  box  alleys 
as  a  child  I  had  many  times  played,  and  every  foot  of 
the  ground  was  pleasingly  familiar. 

The  noise  increased  as  I  approached  through  the 
growing  darkness ;  for  near  where  the  lane  reached 
the  Delaware  was  a  small  earthwork,  the  last  of  those 
I  nr<^ded  to  visit.  I  tried  after  viewing  it  to  cross  the 
double  rows  of  gi'cnadiers  which  guarded  this  road, 
but  was  rudely  repulsed,  and  thus  had  need  to  go 
back  of  their  line  and  around  the  rear  of  the  mansion. 
When  o])posite  to  the  outhouses  used  for  servants  I 
pau.sed  in  the  gi-eat  crowd  of  townsfolk  who  were 
ap]»lauding  or  sullenly  listening  to  the  music  heard 
through  the  open  windows.  I  had  no  gi-eat  desire  to 
linger,  but  as  it  was  dark  I  feared  no  recogniticm, 
and  stayed  to  listen  to  the  fine  l)and  of  tlie  Hessians 
and  the  wild  clash  of  their  cymbals,  which,  before 
tlie.se  Germans  came,  no  one  had  heard  in  the  colonies, 
ily  work  was  over      1  hud  but  to  go  fai'  buck  of  the 

31 


370      Hugh  Wynne;  Free  Quaker 

house  and  make  my  way  to  camp  by  any  one  of  the 
ferries.  Unluekity  the  music  so  attracted  me  that  I 
stayed  on,  and,  step  by  step,  quite  at  my  ease,  drew 
nearer  to  the  mansion. 

The  silly  extravagance  of  the  festival,  with  its  after- 
noon display  of  di-aped  galleys  and  saluting  sliips 
gay  with  flags,  and  its  absurd  mock  show  of  a  tour- 
nament in  ridiculous  costumes,  I  have  no  temptation 
to  describe,  nor  did  I  see  this  part  of  it.  It  was 
meant  to  honour  Sir  William  Howe,  a  man  more 
liked  than  respected,  and  as  a  soldier  beneath  con- 
tempt. I  had  no  right  to  have  lingered,  and  my  idle 
curiosity  came  near  to  have  cost  me  dear.  The  house 
was  precisely  like  Mount  Pleasant,  later  General 
Arnold's  home  on  the  Schuylkill.  In  the  centre  of 
a  large  lawn  stood  a  double  mansion  of  stone,  and  a 
little  to  each  side  were  seen  outhouses  for  servants 
and  kitchen  use.  The  open  space  toward  the  water 
was  extensive  enough  to  admit  of  the  farcical  tilting 
of  the  afternoon.  A  great  variety  of  evergreen  trees 
and  shrubs  gave  the  house  a  more  shaded  look  than 
the  season  would  otherwise  have  afforded.  Among 
these  were  countless  lanterns  illuminating  the 
grounds,  and  from  the  windows  on  all  sides  a  blaze 
of  light  was  visible.  Back  of  the  house  two  roads 
ran  off,  one  to  west  and  one  to  north,  and  along  these 
were  waggons  coming  and  going,  servants,  orderhes, 
and  people  with  supplies. 

At  this  locality  there  was  much  confusion,  and, 
picking  up  a  pair  of  lanterns,  I  went  unquestioned 
past  the  guard  on  the  south  side  of  Walnut  Lane. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       371 

Indeed,  the  sentries  here  and  most  of  the  orderlies 
were  by  this  time  well  in  liquor.  Ouee  within  the 
gi-ounds,  wliich  I  knew  well,  I  was  perfectly  at  home. 
No  one  of  the  guests  was  without  at  the  side  or  front. 
Xow  and  then  a  servant  passed  through  the  alleys 
of  clipped  box  to  see  to  the  lanterns.  I  was  quite 
alone.  In  the  shelter  of  a  row  of  low  hemlocks  and 
box  I  stood  on  a  garden-seat  at  the  south  side  of  the 
house,  fifteen  feet  from  a  large  bow-window,  and, 
parting  the  branches,  I  commanded  a  full  vdew  of  the 
dancing-room.  I  had  no  business  here,  and  I  knew 
it ;  I  meant  but  to  look  and  be  gone.  The  May  night 
was  warm  and  even  sultry,  so  that  the  sashes  were 
all  raised  and  the  curtains  di*awn  aside.  I  saw  with 
ea.<e  a  charming  scene. 

The  walls  were  covered  with  mirrors  lent  for  the 
occasion,  and  the  room  I  commanded  was  beautifully 
draped  witli  flags  and  hangings.  Young  blacks  stood 
at  the  doors,  or  came  and  went  with  refreshments. 
These  servants  were  cla<l  in  blue  and  white,  with  red 
turbans  and  metal  collars  and  bracelets.  The  six 
Knights  of  tlie  Blended  Roses,  or  some  like  silliness, 
had  cast  their  queer  raiments  and  were  in  uniform. 
Their  six  chosen  ladies  were  still  in  party-coloured 
costumes,  which  were  not  to  my  taste.  Mo.st  of  the 
women  — there  were  but  some  threescore,  almost  all 
Tories  or  Moderates— were  in  the  gorgeous  brocades 
and  the  wide  hooped  skirtii  of  the  day.  The  extrav- 
agance of  the  costumes  struck  me.  The  head-dresses, 
a  foot  above  the  head  with  aigrets  and  feathers  and 
an  excess  of  powder,  seemed  to  me  quite  astonishing. 


372      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  stood  motionless,  caught  by  the  beauty  of  the 
moving  picture  before  me.  I  have  ever  loved  colour, 
and  here  was  a  feast  of  it  hard  to  equal.  There  were 
red  coats  and  gold  epaulets,  sashes  and  ribboned 
orders,  the  green  and  red  of  the  chasseurs  of  Bruns- 
wick, blue  navy  uniforms,  the  gold  lace  and  ghtter 
of  staff-officers,  and  in  and  out  among  them  the 
clouds  of  floating  muslin,  gorgeous  brocades,  flash- 
ing silk  petticoats,  jewels,  and  streaming  ribbons. 
The  air  was  full  of  powder  shaken  from  wig,  queue, 
and  head-dress;  spurs  clinked,  stiff  gown  skirts 
rustled.  The  moving  mass  of  coloiu',  lovely  faces, 
and  manly  forms  bent  and  swayed  in  ordered  move- 
ment as  the  music  of  the  grenadier  band  seemed  to 
move  at  will  these  puppets  of  its  harmony. 

They  were  walking  a  minuet,  and  its  tempered 
grace,  which  I  have  never  ceased  to  admire,  seemed 
to  suit  well  the  splendour  of  embroidered  gowns  and 
the  brilliant  glow  of  the  scarlet  coats.  I  began  to 
note  the  faces  and  to  see  them  plainly,  being,  as  I 
have  said,  not  fifteen  feet  away  from  the  window. 
Sir  WiUiam  Howe  was  dancing  with  Miss  Redman. 
I  was  struck,  as  others  have  been,  with  his  likeness  to 
Washington,  but  his  face  wanted  the  undisturbed 
serenity  of  our  great  chief's.  I  dare  say  he  knew 
better  than  to  accept  as  his  honest  right  the  fulsome 
homage  of  this  parting  festival.  I  thought  indeed 
that  he  looked  discontented.  I  caught  glimpses  of 
Colonel  Tarleton  bowing  to  Miss  Bond.  Then  I  saw 
Miss  Franks  sweeping  a  deep  curtsey  to  Lord  Cath- 
cart  as  he  bowed.     There  were  the  fair  Shippen 


Hugh  \\ynne  :  Free  Quaker      373 

women,  the  Chews,  the  provost's  blonde  daughter 
vdth  JSir  John  Wrottesley,  Mrs.  Ferguson,  my  auut's 
"  Tory  cat,"  in  gay  chat  with  Sii*  Charles  Caldor,  Gal- 
loways, Aliens— a  pretty  show  of  loyal  dames,  with 
— save  the  officers— few  young  men  I  knew. 

I  started  as  Darthea  moved  across  the  window- 
space  on  the  arm  of  Andre,  while  following  them 
were  Montresor  and  my  cousin.  I  felt  the  blood  go 
to  my  face  as  I  saw  them,  and  drew  back,  letting  the 
parted  branches  come  together.  With  this  storm  of 
love  and  hate  came  again  the  sudden  reflection  that 
I  had  no  right  to  be  here,  and  that  I  was  off  the  track 
of  duty.  I  stood  a  moment;  the  night  was  dark; 
light.s  gleamed  fai*  out  on  the  river  from  the  battle- 
ships. The  strains  of  their  bands  fell  and  rose, 
faintly  heard  in  the  distance. 

I  saw  as  it  were  before  me  with  distinctness  the 
camp  on  the  windy  hill,  the  lialf-starved,  ragged  men, 
the  face  of  the  great  chief  they  loved.  Once  again 
I  looked  back  on  this  contrasting  scene  of  foolish 
luxurj',  and  turned  to  go  from  where  I  felt  I  never 
should  have  been.  Poor  old  Joseph  \Vliarton !  I 
smiled  to  think  that,  could  he  have  known  to  what 
worldly  use  his  quiet  Quaker  home  had  come,  he 
would  have  rolled  uneasy  in  his  unnamed  gi'ave  in 
the  ground  of  the  Arch  Street  Meeting. 

Turning,  I  gave  a  few  moments  of  thouglit  to  my 
j)lans.  Suddenly  the  music  ceased,  and,  with  laughter 
and  pretty  cries  of  expectation,  gay  gown  and  fan 
and  hoop  and  the  many-coh)ured  uniforms  trooped 
out  from  the  doors,  as  I  learned  later,  to  see  the 


374      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

fireworks,  over  which  were  to  be  set  off  for  final 
flattery  in  fiery  letters,  "  Tes  Lauriet's  Sont  Lmnortels." 
I  hope  he  liked  them,  those  unfading  laurels !  The 
shrubbery  was  at  once  alive  with  joyous  women  and 
laughing'  men. 

I  had  not  counted  on  this,  and  despite  my  disguise 
I  felt  that  any  moment  might  put  me  in  deadly  peril. 
The  speedy  fate  of  a  spy  I  knew  too  well. 

They  were  all  around  me  in  a  minute,  moving  to 
and  fro,  meiTy  and  chatting.  I  heard  Andre  say  to 
Darthea,  "  It  must  please  the  general ;  a  great  success. 
I  shall  write  it  all  to  London.  Ah,  Miss  Peniston ! 
how  to  describe  the  ladies ! " 

"And  their  gowns  ! "  cried  Darthea,  "their  gowns ! " 

"I  am  reduced  to  desperation,"  said  Andre.  "I 
must  ask  the  women  to  describe  one  another ;  hey, 
Wynne  ? "  They  were  now  standing  apart  from  the 
rest,  and  I,  hid  by  the  bushes,  was  not  five  feet  away. 

"■  A  dangerous  resource,"  returned  Wynne.  "  The 
list  of  wounded  vanities  would  be  large.  How  like 
a  brown  fairy  is  Miss  Franks !  Who  shall  describe 
her  ?    No  woman  wiU  dare." 

"  You  might  ask  Mr.  Oliver  de  Lancey,''  said  Miss 
Darthea.    "  She  would  be  secure  of  a  pretty  picture." 

"And  you,"  said  Wynne— "who  is  to  be  your 
painter  ? " 

"  I  shall  beg  for  the  place,"  cried  Andr6. 

"  I  think  I  shall  take  some  rebel  officer,"  said  Dar- 
thea, saucily.  "  Think  how  fresh  we  should  look  to 
those  love-starved  gentlemen  whom  Sir  William  has 
brought  to  such  abject  submission." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      375 

Andre  laughed,  but  not  very  heartily.  As  to 
TV\Tme,  he  was  silent.  The  captain  went  on  to  say 
how  sad  it  was  that  just  as  the  general  was  ready  to 
sweep  those  colonials  out  of  existence— 

"  Why  not  say  rebels,  Andi'e  f "  Wynne  broke  in. 

"Better  not!  bett«*  not!  I  never  do.  It  only 
makes  more  bitter  what  is  bad  enough.  But  where 
ai'e  the  tireworks  ?  ^ 

Meauwhile  I  was  in  dire  perplexity,  afraid  to  stir, 
hoping  that  they  would  move  away. 

"There  is  a  seat  hereabouts,"  said  my  cousin. 
"  You  must  be  tired,  Miss  Peuiston." 

"  A  httle." 

"  I  wiU  look,"  said  Wj-nne.     "  This  way." 

As  I  was  in  possession  of  the  seat,  I  got  down  at 
once,  but  in  two  steps  Arthur  was  beside  me,  and 
for  an  instant  the  full  blaze  from  the  ^vindow  caught 
me  square  in  the  face.  He  was  nearest,  but  Darthea 
was  just  behind  him,  and  none  other  but  Andi-e  close 
at  hand. 

"  By  heavens !  "  I  heard,  and  my  cousin  had  me  by 
the  collar.     "  Here,  Andre  !  A  spy  !  a  spy  !    Quick  ! " 

I  heard  a  cry  from  Darthea,  and  saw  her  reel 
against  my  cousin's  shoulder. 

"Heli>!'help!     I  am— ill." 

Arthur  turned,  exclaiming,  "  Darthea  !  My  God  !  " 
and  thus  distracted  between  her  and  me,  let  slack 
his  hold.  I  tore  away  and  ran  around  the  house, 
upsetting  an  old  officer,  and  so  through  the  shrub- 
bery and  the  servants,  whom  I  hustled  one  way  and 
another.     I  heard  shouts  of  "  Spy  !  "  "  Stop  tliief !  * 


376      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


and  the  rattle  of  arms  all  around  me.  Several  wag'- 
gons  blocked  the  roadway.  I  felt  that  I  must  be 
caught,  and  darted  under  a  waggon  body.  I  was 
close  to  the  lines  as  I  rose  from  beneath  the  waggon. 

At  this  instant  cannonry  thundered  out  to  north, 
and  a  rocket  rose  in  air.  The  grenadiers  looked  up 
in  surprise.  Seeing  the  momentary  disorder  of  these 
men,  who  were  standing  at  intervals  of  some  six  feet 
apart,  I  darted  through  them  and  into  the  crowd 
of  spectators.  I  still  heard  shouts  and  orders,  but 
pushed  in  among  the  people  outside  of  the  guard, 
hither  and  thither,  using  my  legs  and  elbows  to  good 
purpose.  Increasing  rattle  of  musketry  was  heard 
in  the  distance,  the  ships  beating  to  quarters,  the 
cries  and  noises  back  of  me  louder  and  louder.  I 
was  now  moving  slowly  in  the  crowd,  and  at  last  got 
clean  away  from  it. 

What  had  happened  I  knew  not,  but  it  was  most 
fortunate  for  me.  When  a  few  yards  from  the  people 
I  began  to  run,  stumbling  over  the  fields,  into  and 
through  ditches,  and  because  of  this  alarm  was  at 
last,  I  concluded,  reasonably  safe. 

I  had  run  nearly  a  mile  before  I  sat  down  to  get 
my  breath  and  cool  off.  Away  to  north  a  great  flare 
of  red  fire  lit  up  the  sky.  What  it  was  I  knew  not, 
but  sat  awhile  and  gave  myself  leave  to  think.  My 
cousin  had  instantly  known  me,  but  he  had  hesitated 
a  moment.  I  knew  the  signs  of  indecision  in  his 
face  too  well  to  be  misled.  I  had  felt,  as  he  seized 
me,  that  I  was  lost.  I  could  not  blame  him ;  it  was 
clearly  his  duty.     But  I  do  not  think  I  should  have 


HKKK  A.NIJKK'    A  SPY" 


I'oue  376 

Huijh    U'pnne 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      377 

mllincrly  recognised  him  under  like  circnmstances. 
My  very  hatred  would  have  made  me  more  than  hes- 
itate. Still,  who  can  say  what  he  would  do  in  the 
haste  of  such  a  brief  moral  conflict  ?  I  could  recall, 
as  I  sat  still  and  reflected,  the  really  savage  joy  in 
his  face  as  he  collared  me.  How  deeply  he  must 
love  her !  He  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  go  to  pieces  at 
her  cry.  Was  she  ill  ?  Did  her  quick-coming  sense 
of  my  danger  make  her  faint?  I  had  seen  her 
unaccountitbly  thus  affected  once  before,  as  he  who 
reads  these  pages  may  remember.  Or  was  it  a  ready- 
witted  ru.se?  Ah,  my  sweet  Darthea!  I  wanted  to 
think  it  that. 

The  bhize  to  northward  was  stiU  gi'owing  brigliter, 
and  being  now  far  out  on  the  marshes  south  of  the 
town,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  use  my  pass  at  the 
nearer  feny,  which  we  call  Gray's,  and  this,  too,  as 
soon  as  possible,  for  fear  that  orders  to  stop  a  Qua- 
ker spy  might  cause  me  to  regret  delay. 

When  I  came  to  Montresor's  bridge  my  thought 
went  back  to  my  former  escape,  and,  avoiding  all 
appearance  of  haste,  I  stayed  to  ask  the  sergeant  in 
charge  of  the  guard  what  the  blaze  meant.  He  said 
it  was  an  alert. 

A  few  days  after,  ^NlcLane  related  to  me  with  glee 
how  with  Clowe's  dragoons  and  a  hundred  foot  he 
liad  stolen  up  to  the  lines,  every  man  ha\dng  a  pot 
of  tar ;  how  they  had  smeared  the  diy  abatis  and 
bru.'<h,  and  at  a  sigiuil  fired  the  whole  mass  of  dried 
wood.  lie  was  followed  into  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Wissahickon,  and  lost  his  ensign  and  a  man  or  two 


37^      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

near  Barren  Hill,  The  infantry  scattered  and  hid 
in  the  woods,  but  McLane  swam  his  horse  across  the 
Schuylkill,  got  the  help  of  Morgan's  rifles,  and,  re- 
turning, drove  his  pursuers  up  to  their  own  intreneh- 
ments.  He  said  it  was  the  best  fun  he  had  ever  had, 
and  he  hoped  the  Tory  ladies  liked  his  fii-eworks. 
At  all  events,  it  saved  my  neck. 

As  I  walked  through  Gray's  Lane  I  fell  to  reflect- 
ing upon  Andre's  behaviour,  of  which  I  have  said 
nothing.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  could 
hardly  have  recognised  me.  This  seemed  likely 
enough,  because  we  had  not  met  often,  and  I  too, 
apart  from  my  disguise,  had  changed  very  greatly. 
And  yet  why  had  he  not  responded  to  an  obvious 
call  to  duty?  He  certainly  was  not  very  quick  to 
act  on  Arthur's  cry  for  help.  But  Darthea  was  on 
his  arm,  and  only  let  it  go  when  she  fell  heavily 
against  my  cousin. 

I  had  a  fine  story  for  Jack,  and  so,  thinking  with 
wonder  of  the  whirl  of  adventure  into  which  I  had 
fallen  ever  since  I  left  home,  I  hurried  along.  It  is 
a  singular  fact,  but  true,  that  certain  men  never  have 
unusual  adventures.  I  am  not  one  of  these.  Even 
in  the  most  quiet  times  of  peace  I  meet  with  odd 
incidents,  and  this  has  always  been  my  lot.  With 
this  and  other  matters  in  my  mind,  resolving  that 
never  again  would  I  permit  any  motive  to  lead  me 
off  the  track  of  the  hoiu*'s  duty,  I  walked  along.  I 
had  had  a  lesson. 

I  sought  my  old  master's  house,  and  reached  it  in 
an  hour.     Here  I  found  food  and  ready  help,  and 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      379 

before  evening  next  day,  May  19,  was  at  tlie  camp. 
I  spent  an  hour  in  earefiill}'  writing  out  my  report, 
and  Jack,  under  my  directions,  being  clever  \N-itli  the 
pencil,  made  plans  of  the  forts  and  the  enemy's  de- 
fences, which  I  took  to  headquartei-s,  and  a  copy  of 
which  I  have  inserted  in  these  memoirs.  I  had  everj' 
reason  to  beheve  that  my  report  was  satisfactory, 
I  then  went  back  to  discourse  with  Jack  over  my 
adventures.  You  may  see  hanging  framed  in  my 
library,  and  below  General  von  Kuyphausen's  sword, 
a  letter  which  an  orderly  brought  to  me  the  next 
day: 

"  Sir  :  It  would  be  an  impropriety  to  mention  in 
general  orders  a  service  such  as  you  have  rendered. 
To  do  so  might  subject  you  to  greater  peril,  or  to  ill 
treatment  were  you  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  en- 
emy. I  needed  no  fresh  proof  of  yom*  merit  to  bear 
it  in  remembrance.  No  one  can  feel  more  sensibly 
the  value  of  your  gallant  conduct,  or  more  rejoice 
for  your  escape. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be 

"  Your  obed'  Hum*  Serv*, 
''  G'  Washington. 

"To  Lieut.  ITugh  "WjTme,  etc." 

This  was  writ  in  his  own  hand,  as  were  many  of 
hi.s  letters,  even  such  as  were  of  great  length.  The 
handwriting  )>etrays  no  mark  of  haste,  and  seems 
penned  with  such  exactness  as  all  his  correspondence 
shows.    It  may  be  that  he  composed  slowly,  and  thus 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Oiuaker      3S1 

of  need  wrote  witli  uo  greater  speed  than  his  thought 
permitted.  I  at  least  found  it  liard  to  exphiin  how, 
in  the  midst  of  affairs,  worried,  interrupted,  distracted, 
he  does  at  no  time  show  in  his  penmanship  au}'  sign 
of  haste. 

Wlieu  I  handed  this  letter  to  Jack  I  coidd  not 
speak  for  a  moment,  and  yet  I  was  never  much  the 
victim  of  emotion.  Mv  dear  Jack  said  it  was  not 
enough.  ¥ov  my  own  part,  a  captain's  commission 
woidd  not  have  pleased  me  as  well.  I  ran  no  risk 
which  I  did  not  bring  upon  myself  by  that  which 
was  outside  of  my  duty ;  and  as  to  this  part  of  my 
adventure,  I  told  no  one  but  Jack,  being  much 
ashamed  of  the  weakness  which  came  so  near  to 
costing  me  not  only  my  life,  but— what  would  have 
been  worse— the  success  of  my  errand. 


XXI 

HE  warm  spring  weather,  and  General 
Greene's  good  management  as  quarter- 
master, brought  us  warmth  and  better 
diet.  The  Conestoga  wains  rolled  in  with 
gi'ain  and  good  rum.  Droves  of  cattle 
appeared,  and  as  the  men  were  fed  the  drills  pros- 
pered. Soldiers  and  officers  began  to  amuse  them- 
selves. A  theatre  was  arranged  in  one  of  the  bigger 
barns,  and  we— not  I,  but  others— played  "  The  Fair 
Penitent."  Colonel  Grange  had  a  part,  and  made  a 
fine  die  of  it ;  but  the  next  day,  being  taken  with  a 
pleurisy,  came  near  to  making  a  more  real  exit  from 
life.  I  think  it  was  he  who  invited  Jack  Warder  to 
play  Galista.  Lady  Kitty  Stirling  had  said  he  would 
look  the  part  well,  with  his  fair  locks  and  big  inno- 
cent blue  ej'^es,  and  she  would  lend  him  her  best  silk 
flowered  gown  and  a  fine  lot  of  lace.  Jack  was  in  a 
rage,  but  the  colonel,  much  amused,  apologised,  and 
so  it  blew  over.  His  Excellency  and  Lady  Washing- 
ton were  to  see  the  play,  and  the  Ladies  Stirling 
and  Madam  Greene  were  all  much  delighted. 

"  The  Recruiting  Officer  "  we  should  have  had  later, 
but  about  the  latter  part  of  May  we  got  news  of 
the  British  as  about  to  move  out  of  my  dear  home 

382 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      383 

city.  After  this  was  bruited  about,  no  one  eared  to 
do  anything  but  get  ready  to  leave  the  winter  huts 
and  be  after  Sir  Henry.  In  fact,  long  before  this 
got  out  thei*e  wais  an  air  of  hopeful  expectation  in 
the  anny,  and  the  men  began,  like  the  officers,  to 
amuse  themselves.  The  camp-fires  were  gaj',  jokes 
seemed  to  revive  in  the  warm  air,  and  once  more  men 
laughed.  It  wa«  pleat^ant,  too,  to  see  the  soldiers  at 
fives,  or  the  wickets  up  and  the  oricket-balls  of  tiglitly 
roUcd  rag  ribbons  flying,  or  fellows  at  leap-frog,  idl 
much  encouraged  by  reason  of  having  better  diet, 
and  no  need  now  to  shrink  their  stomachs  with  green 
persimmons  or  to  hve  without  rum.  As  to  McLane 
and  our  restless  Wayne,  they  were  about  as  quiet  as 
disturbed  wasps.  The  latter  liked  nothing  better  this 
spring  than  to  get  up  an  alert  by  running  cannon 
do^vn  to  the  hiUs  on  the  west  of  the  Schuylkill,  pitch- 
ing shot  at  the  bridges,  and  then  to  be  off  and  away  be- 
fore the  slow  grenadiers  could  cross  in  force.  Thus 
it  was  that  never  a  week  went  by  without  adventures. 
Captain  McLane  let  neither  man  nor  horse  live  long 
at  ease ;  but  whatever  he  did  was  planned  witli  the 
extreme  of  care  and  can-ied  out  with  equal  audacity. 

The  army  was  most  eager  for  the  summer  camjjaign. 
We  had  begun,  as  I  have  said,  to  suspect  that  Sir 
Heurj'  Clinton,  who  luul  succeeded  Howe,  was  about 
to  move ;  but  whither  he  meant  to  march,  or  his 
true  object,  our  camp-fii'e  councils  coidd  not  guess 
as  yet. 

Verj'  early  in  the  evening  of  June  17,  I  met  Col- 
onel Hamilton  riding  in  ha«te.    "  Come,"  he  said;  "I 


384      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

am  to  see  Wayne  and  the  marquis.  Clinton  is  on 
the  wing,  as  we  have  long  expected.  He  will  very- 
likely  have  already  crossed  into  the  Jerseys.  Will 
you  have  a  place  in  the  foot  if  his  Excellency  can  get 
you  a  captaincy  ?  " 

I  said  "  Yes  "  instantly. 

"  You  seem  to  know  your  own  mind,  Mr.  Wynne. 
There  will  be  more  hard  knocks  and  more  glory." 
-    I  thought  so  too,  but  I  was  now  again  in  the  full 
vigour  of  health,  and  an  appointment  in  the  foot 
would,  as  I  hoped,  bring  me  nearer  to  Jack. 

And  now  joy  and  excitement  reigned  throughout 
the  camps.  The  news  was  true.  On  the  18th  of  June 
Sir  Henry  CHnton,  having  gotten  ready  by  sending 
on  in  advance  his  guns  and  baggage,  cleverly  slipped 
across  the  Delaware,  followed  by  every  Tory  who 
feared  to  remain ;  some  three  thousand,  it  was  said. 

Long  before  dawn  we  of  McLane's  light  horse 
were  in  the  saddle.  As  we  passed  Chestnut  Hill  I 
fell  out  to  teU  my  aunt  the  good  news.  I  was  scarce 
gone  by  before  she  began  to  make  ready  to  follow 
us.  As  we  pushed  at  speed  through  Germantown, 
it  became  sure  that  the  evacuation  had  been  fully 
accomplished.  We  raced  down  Front  street  at  a  rate 
which  seemed  reckless  to  me.  McLane  gave  no  or- 
ders, but  galloped  on  ahead  in  his  usual  mad  way. 
The  townsfolk  were  wild  with  joy.  Women  stood 
in  tears  as  we  went  by ;  men  cheered  us  and  the  boys 
hurrahed.  At  Arch  and  Front  streets,  as  we  pulled  up, 
I  saw  a  poor  little  cornet  come  out  of  a  house  half 
bewildered  and  buttoning  his  red  jacket.     I  pushed 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       385 

Lucy  on  to  the  sidewtilk  and  canght  him  by  the  col- 
lai'.  He  made  a  great  fuss  and  had  clearly  overslept 
hunself.  I  wjis  hurriedly  exi>laiuing,  amid  much 
laughter,  wIr'U  AIcLane  called  out,  "A  nice  doll-baby  I 
Up  with  him  I "  And  away  he  went,  behind  a 
trooper.  At  Thu-d  street  bridge  were  two  other  offi- 
cers who  must  have  been  tipsy  overnight  and  have 
slept  too  late.  At  last,  ^vith  oui*  horses  half  dead, 
we  walked  them  back  to  Front  and  High  streets, 
and  got  off  for  a  rest  and  a  mug  of  beer  at  the  coffee- 
house. Soon  came  a  brigade  of  Vu'ginians,  and  we 
marched  away  to  camp  on  the  common  called  Centre 
Squai'e. 

The  streets  were  full  of  huzzaing  crowds.  Our 
flags,  long  hid,  were  Hying.  Scared  tradesmen  were 
pulling  down  the  king's  arms  they  had  set  over  theii* 
signs.  The  better  Toiy  houses  were  closed,  and  few 
of  this  class  were  to  be  seen  in  the  streets. 

^lajor-General  Arnold  followed  after  us.  Unable, 
because  of  his  wound,  to  accept  a  command  in  the 
field,  he  took  up  his  abode  as  commandant  of  the 
city  in  Mr.  Moms's  gi*eat  house  at  the  northeast 
comer  of  Front  and  High  streets.  I  saw  this  gallant 
soldier  in  May,  at  the  time  he  joined  the  camp  at  the 
Forge,  when  he  was  handsomely  cheered  by  the  men. 
He  was  a  man  dai'k  and  yet  ruddy,  soldierly  looking, 
with  a  large  nose,  and  not  unlike  his  Excellency  as 
to  the  upper  part  of  his  face.  He  was  still  on  crutches, 
being  thin  and  worn  from  the  effects  of  the  hurt  he 
received  at  Sarat<»ga. 

An  soon  as  possible  I  left  the  troop  and  rode  away 


386      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

on  Lucy  down  High  street  to  Second  and  over  the 
bridges  to  my  home. 

I  was  uo  longer  the  mere  lad  I  had  left  it.  Com- 
mand of  others,  the  leisure  for  thought  in  the  camp, 
the  sense  that  I  had  done  my  duty  well,  had  made 
of  me  a  resolute  and  decisive  man.  As  I  went 
around  to  the  stables  in  the  rear  of  the  house  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  must  in  a  minute  see  those  blue 
eyes,  and  hear  the  pretty  French  phrases  of  tender 
love  which  in  times  of  excitement  used  to  rise  to  my 
mother's  lips.  It  is  thus  as  to  some  we  love.  We 
never  come  to  feel  concerning  them  that  certainty 
of  death  which  sets  apart  from  us  forever  others  who 
are  gone.  To  this  day  a  thought  of  her  brings  back 
that  smiling  face,  and  she  lives  for  me  the  life  of 
eternal  remembrance. 

No  one  was  in  the  stable  when  I  unsaddled  the 
tired  mare.  At  the  kitchen  door  the  servants  ran 
out  with  cries  of  joy.  With  a  word  I  passed  them, 
smelling  my  father's  pipe  in  the  hall,  for  it  was  even- 
ing, and  supper  was  over. 

He  rose,  letting  his  pipe  drop,  as  I  ran  to  fall  on 
his  great  chest,  and  pray  him  to  pardon,  once  for  all, 
what  I  had  felt  that  it  was  my  duty  to  do.  I  was 
stayed  a  moment  as  I  saw  him.  He  had  lost  flesh 
continually,  and  his  massive  build  and  unusual  height 
showed  now  a  gaunt  and  sombre  man,  with  clothes 
too  loose  about  him,  I  thought  that  his  eyes  were 
filling,  but  the  habits  of  a  life  controlled  him. 

He  held  to  a  chair  with  Ms  left  hand,  and  coldly 
put  out  the  right  to  meet  my  eager  grasp.    I  stood 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      387 

still,  my  instinct  of  tenderness  cheeked.  I  could  only 
repeat,  ''  Father,  father,  I  have  come  home." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  thon  hast  come  home.  Sit 
down." 

I  obeyed.  Then  he  stooped  to  pick  up  his  pipe, 
and  raising  liis  strong  gray  head,  looked  me  over  in 
perfect  silence. 

"  Am  I  not  welcome,"  I  cried,  "  in  my  mother's 
home?  Are  we  always  to  be  kept  apart?  I  have 
done  what,  under  God,  seemed  to  me  His  will.  Can- 
not you,  who  go  your  way  so  steadily,  see  that  it  is 
the  right  of  your  son  to  do  the  same?  You  have 
made  it  hard  for  me  to  do  my  duty.  Tliink  as  seems 
best  to  you  of  what  I  do  or  shall  do,  but  have  for  me 
tlie  charity  Christ  teaches.  I  shall  go  again,  father, 
and  you  may  never  see  me  more  on  earth.  Let  there 
be  peace  between  us  now.  For  my  mother's  sake, 
let  us  have  peace.  K  I  have  cost  you  dear,  beheve 
me,  I  owe  to  you  such  sad  hours  as  need  never  have 
been.     My  mother— she— " 

During  this  outburst  he  heard  me  with  motionless 
attention,  but  at  my  last  word  he  raised  his  hand. 
"  I  like  not  thy  naming  of  thy  mother.  It  has  been 
to  me  ever  a  reproach  that  I  saw  not  how  far  hor 
indulgence  was  leading  tliee  out  of  the  ways  of 
Friends.  There  are  who  by  birthright  are  with  us, 
but  not  of  us— not  of  us." 

Tliis  strange  speech  startled  me  into  fuller  self- 
command.  I  remembered  his  strange  dislike  to  hear 
her  mentioned.  As  he  spoke  his  fingers  opened  and 
shut  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  and 


388      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

here  and  there  on  Ms  large-featured  face  the  muscles 
twitched. 

"  I  will  not  hear  her  named  again,"  he  added.  "  As 
for  thee,  my  son,  this  is  thy  home,  I  will  not  drive 
thee  out  of  it." 

"  Drive  me  out ! "  I  exclaimed.  I  was  horror-struck. 

"And  Avhy  not?  Since  thou  wert  a  boy  I  have 
borne  all  tilings:  drunkenness,  debauchery,  blood- 
guiltiness,  rebellion  against  those  whom  God  has  set 
over  us,  and  at  last  war,  the  murder  of  thy  fellows." 

I  was  silent.  What  could  I  say?  The  words 
which  came  from  my  heart  had  failed  to  touch  him. 
He  had  buiied  even  the  memory  of  my  mother.  I 
remembered  Aunt  Gainor's  warnings  as  to  his  health, 
and  set  myself  at  once  to  hear  and  reply  with  gentle' 
ness. 

He  went  on  as  if  he  knew  my  thought :  "  I  am 
no  longer  the  man  I  was.  I  am  deserted  by  my  son 
when  I  am  in  greatest  need  of  him.  Had  it  not 
pleased  God  to  send  me  for  my  stay,  in  this  my  lone- 
liness, thy  Cousin  Arthur,  I  shoidd  have  been  glad 
to  rest  from  the  labours  of  earth." 

"  Arthur !     My  cousin  !  " 

"  I  said  so.  He  has  become  to  me  as  a  son.  It  is 
not  easy  for  one  brought  up  among  dissolute  men  to 
turn  away  and  seek  righteousness,  but  he  hath  heard 
as  thou  didst  never  hear,  nor  wouldst.  He  hath  given 
up  dice  and  cards,  and  hath  asked  of  me  books  such  as 
Besse's  *  Sufferings '  and  George  Fox's  '  Testimony.'" 

This  was  said  so  simply  and  in  such  honest  faith 
that  I  could  not  resist  to  smile. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      389 

"  I  did  not  ask  thee  to  believe  me,"  said  mv  father, 
sharply;  ''and  if  because  a  man  is  spii-ituaUy  re- 
miu.led  and  hath  staved  to  consider  his  sin,  it  is  for 
thee  but  cause  of  vain  mirth,  I  will  say  no  more. 
I  have  lost  a  son,  and  found  one.  I  would  it  had 
been  he  whom  I  lost  that  is  now  found." 

I  answered  gi-avely,  "  Father,  the  man  is  a  hj-jio- 
crite,  lie  saw  me  dying  a  prisoner  in  jail,  starved 
and  in  rags.     He  left  me  to  die." 

"  I  have  heard  of  this.  He  saw  some  one  about  to 
die.     He  thought  he  was  like  thee." 

"  But  he  heard  my  name." 

*'  That  cannot  be.  He  said  it  was  not  thee.  He 
said  it ! " 

"  He  lied ;  and  wliy  should  he  liave  ever  mentioned 
the  matter  to  thee— as  indeed  he  did  to  others— ex- 
cept for  precaution's  sake,  that  if,  as  seemed  unhko 
enough,  I  got  well,  he  might  have  some  excuse  ?  It 
seems  to  me  a  weak  and  fooUsh  action,  but  none  the 
less  wicked." 

My  fatlier  listened,  but  at  times  with  a  look  of 
being  puzzled.  "I  do  not  think  I  follow  thy  argu- 
ment, Hugh,"  he  said,  "  neither  does  thy  judgment 
of  tlie  business  seem  favoured  by  that  which  I  know 
of  thy  cousin." 

*'  Father,  tliat  man  is  my  enoiny.  He  hates  me 
becau.se— because  Darthea  is  my  friend,  and  but  for 
her  1  shoidd  have  rotted  in  the  jail,  "with  none  to 
help  me." 

"  Thy  grandfatlier  lay  in  Shrewsbury  Gate  House 
a  year  for  a  better  (Miuse,  and  as  for  thy  deliverance, 


39^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  heard  of  it  later.  It  did  seem  to  Arthur  that  the 
young  woman  had  done  more  modestly  to  have  asked 
his  help  than  to  have  been  so  forward.'' 

My  father  spoke  with  increase  of  the  deliberate- 
ness  at  all  times  one  of  his  peculiarities,  which  seemed 
to  go  well  with  the  bigness  of  his  build.  This  slow- 
ness in  talk  seemed  now  to  be  due  in  part  to  a  slight 
trouble  in  finding  the  word  he  required.  It  gave  me 
time  to  observe  how  involved  was  the  action  of  his 
mind.  The  impression  of  his  being  iadirect  and  less 
simple  than  of  old  was  more  marked  as  oui*  talk  went 
on  than  I  can  here  convey  by  any  possible  record  of 
what  he  said.  I  only  succeeded  in  making  him  more 
obstinate  in  his  belief,  as  was  always  the  case  when 
any  opposed  him.  Yet  I  could  not  resist  adding: 
"  If,  as  you  seem  to  think,  Arthur  is  my  friend,  I 
would  you  could  have  seen  his  face  when  at  that  sUly 
jMischianza  he  caught  me  in  disguise." 

"  Did  he  not  do  his  duty  after  thy  creed  and  his  ? " 

"  It  was  not  that,  father.  Some  men  might  have 
hesitated  even  as  to  the  duty.  Mr.  Andre  did  not 
help  him,  and  his  debt  to  us  was  small.  Had  I  been 
taken  I  should  have  swung  as  a  spy  on  the  gallows 
in  Centre  Square." 

"  And  yet,"  said  my  father,  with  emphatic  slowness, 
"  he  would  have  done  his  duty  as  he  saw  it." 

"  And  profited  by  it  also,"  said  I,  savagely. 

"  There  is  neither  charity  nor  yet  common  sense 
in  thy  words,  Hugh.  If  thou  art  to  abide  here,  see 
that  thy  ways  conform  to  the  sobriety  and  decency 
of  Friends.   I  will  have  no  cards  nor  hard  drinking." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      391 

"  But  good  heavens !  father,  when  have  I  ever 
done  these  things  here,  or  indeed  anywhere,  for 
veaj-s  ? " 

Ilis  fingei"s  were  again  placing  on  the  anns  of  Mr. 
Penn's  great  chair,  and  I  made  haste  to  put  an  end 
to  this  bewildering  talk. 

*•  I  will  try,"  I  said,  "  to  live  in  such  a  way  as  shall 
not  offend.  Lucy  is  in  the  stable,  and  I  will  take  my 
old  room.  My  Aunt  Gainor  is  to  be  in  town  to- 
morrow." 

*'  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  her." 

"And  how  is  the  business,  father?"  I  said. 
"  There  are  no  ships  at  sea,  I  hope.  The  privateers 
are  busy,  and  if  any  goods  be  found  that  may  have 
been  for  use  of  the  king's  people,  we  might  have  to 
regret  a  loss." 

"  /might,"  he  returned  sharply.  "I  am  still  able 
to  conduct  my  own  ventures." 

*'0f  course,  sir,"  I  said  hastily,  wondering  where 
I  could  find  any  subject  which  was  free  from  power 
to  annoy  him.  Then  I  rose,  sajing,  "There  is  an 
early  drill.  I  shall  have  to  be  on  hand  to  receive 
General  Arnold.  I  shall  not  be  back  to  breakfast. 
Good-night." 

"Farewell,"  he  said.  And  I  wont  upstairs  with 
more  food  for  thought  than  was  to  my  liking.  I  had 
hoped  for  a  brief  .season  of  rest  and  peace,  and  here 
was  whatever  snudl  place  I  held  in  my  father's  heart 
filled  by  my  cou.sin. 

When,  nc»t  long  after,  for  mere  comfort,  I  liad  occa- 
sion to  speak  to  the  great  Dr.  Rush  of  my  fatlier,  he 


392      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

said  that  when  the  brain  became  enfeebled  men  were 
apt  to  assig:n  to  one  man  acts  done  by  another,  and 
that  this  did  explain  the  latter  part  of  my  father's  talk 
about  cards  and  drinking.  Also  he  said  that  with 
defect  of  memory  came  more  or  less  incapacity  to 
reason,  since  for  that  a  man  must  be  able  to  assemble 
past  events  and  review  them  in  his  memory.  Indeed, 
he  added,  certain  failures  of  remembrance  might 
even  permit  a  good  man  to  do  apparent  wrong,  which 
seemed  to  me  less  clear.  The  good  doctor  helped  me 
much,  for  I  was  confused  and  hurt,  seeing  no  remedy 
in  anything  I  could  do  or  say. 

I  lit  the  candles  in  mv  old  room  and  looked  about 
me.  My  cousin  had,  it  appeared,  taken  up  his  abode 
in  my  own  chamber,  and  this  put  me  out  singularly ; 
I  could  hardly  have  said  why.  The  room  was  in  the 
utmost  confusion.  Only  that  morning  Arthur  Wynne 
had  left  it.  Many  of  the  lazier  officers  had  overslept 
thems'  Ives,  as  I  have  said,  and  came  near  to  being 
quite  left  behind.  Lord  Cosmo  Gordon,  in  fact,  made 
his  escape  in  a  skiff  just  before  we  entered. 

The  bed  was  still  not  made  up,  which  showed  me 
how  careless  oui*  slaves  must  have  become.  The  floor 
was  littered  with  torn  paper,  and  in  a  drawer,  forgot 
in  Arthur's  hurry,  were  many  bills,  paid  and  unpaid, 
some  of  which  were  odd  enough ;  also  many  notes, 
tickets  for  the  Mischianza,  theatre-bills,  portions  of 
plays,— my  cousin  was  an  admirable  actor  in  light 
parts,— and  a  note  or  two  in  Darthea's  neat  writing. 
I  had  no  hesitation  in  putting  them  all  on  the  hearth. 

There  was  nothing  in  me  to  make  me  take  advan- 


Pliigh  \\^'nne:  Free  Quaker      393 

tage  of  wlmt  I  t'ouiul.  I  kept  tlie  Miscliiauzii  tickets, 
aud  that  waii  all.  I  have  them  yet.  On  the  table 
were  Fox's  '•Apolo'ry,"  "A  Sweet  Discourse  to 
Frieuds,''  by  \ViIli:im  I'euu.  aud  the  famous  *'  Book 
of  Sufferiu^'s.-'  In  the  hitter  was  thrust  a  small,  thin 
betting-tublL't,  such  as  many  gentlemen  then  carried. 
Here  were  some  queer  records  of  bets  more  curious 
than  reputable.  I  recall  but  two :  "  Mr.  Harcourt 
bets  Mr.  Wynne  five  pounds  tluit  Miss  A.  will  wear 
red  stockings  at  the  play  on  May  12th.  "Won,  A. 
Wj'nne.  Thej'  were  blue,  and  so  was  the  lady."  "  A. 
W.  bets  Mr.  von  Speiser  ten  pounds  that  he  will 
di'ink  fom-  cpuu-ts  of  Madeira  before  Mr.  von  S.  can 
drink  two ;  Major  de  Lancey  to  measure  the  wine. 
Lost,  A.  W.   The  Dutch  pig  was  too  much  for  me." 

Wondering  whatDai'thea  or  my  father  woidd  think 
of  these  follies,  I  tossed  the  books  and  the  betting- 
tablet  on  the  pile  of  bills  on  the  hearth.  I  have  since 
then  been  shown  in  London  by  General  Burgoyne 
the  betting-book  at  Brooks's  Club.  There  are  to  bo 
seen  the  records  of  still  more  singular  bets,  some 
quite  abominable ;  but  such  were  the  manners  of  the 
day.     My  cousin,  as  to  this,  was  like  the  rest. 

In  a  closet  were  cast-off  garments  and  riding-boots. 
I  sent  for  Tom,  and  bade  him  do  with  these  as  he 
liked ;  then  I  set  fire  to  the  papers  on  the  hearth, 
ordered  the  room  put  in  order,  and  atlvr  a  pipe  in 
the  orchard  went  to  bed. 


XXII 

|Y  father  was  out  when,  the  next  day  at 
noon,  I  found  in  the  counting-house  our 
old  clerk,  Thomas  Mason.  He,  like  my- 
self, had  seen  with  distress  my  father's 
condition ;  but  he  told  me,  to  my  surprise, 
that  he  was  still  acute  and  competent  in  most  matters 
of  business. 

"Look  at  this,  Mr.  Hugh,"  he  said,  showing  me 
careful  entries  in  the  day-book,  in  my  father's  hand, 
of  nearly  one  thousand  pounds  lent  to  my  Cousin 
Arthur.  My  father  had  spoken  to  Mason  of  an  in- 
tention to  alter  his  will.  He  never  did  alter  it,  but, 
believing  me  dead,  tore  it  up  and  made  no  new  one. 
None  of  our  ships  were  at  sea.  Most  of  them  had 
been  sold  as  transports  to  the  British  quartermaster. 
My  sole  comfort  at  home  was  in  the  absence  of  Arthur 
Wynne,  and  in  the  fact  that  Darthea  was  in  the  city, 
as  I  learned  from  Mason. 

After  this  I  went  at  once  to  see  my  aunt,  but  could 
give  her  only  a  few  minutes,  as  I  knew  McLane 
would  need  my  knowledge  of  the  neighbourhood. 
In  fact,  I  was  busy  for  two  days  looking  after  the 
Tory  bands  who  were  plundering  farms  to  west  of 
the  city. 

394 


k 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       395 

As  soon  as  possible  I  weut  a<^aiu  to  see  my  Aunt 
Gaiuor.  The  ^'ood  old  lady  was  lamenting  ber  scanty 
toilet,  and  the  dirt  in  which  the  Hessians  had  left 
her  house,  ''  I  have  drunk  no  tea  since  Lexington," 
she  said,  "  and  I  have  bought  no  gowns.  My  gowns, 
sir,  are  on  the  backs  of  our  poor  soldiers.  I  am  not 
fit  to  be  seen  beside  that  minx  Darthea.  And  how 
is  Jack?  The  Ferguson  woman  has  been  here.  I 
hate  her,  but  she  has  all  the  news.  If  one  has  no 
go'v^Tis,  it  is  at  lea^it  a  comfort  to  hear  gossip.  I  told 
her  so,  but  Lord !  the  woman  docs  not  care  a  rap  if 
you  do  but  let  her  talk.  She  says  Joseph  Warder 
is  smit  with  Darthea's  aunt,  and  what  a  tine  courtship 
that  will  be  !  Old  Duche,  our  preacher,  is  gone  away 
with  Sir  William;  and  now  we  have  my  beautiful 
young  man,  Mr.  White,  at  Christ  Chui'ch." 

So  the  dear  lady  rattled  on,  her  great  form  mov- 
ing among  her  battered  f  uruitm*e,  and  her  clear  voice, 
not  without  fine  tones,  rising  and  falling,  until  at 
la.st  she  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  would  hear  all  my 
adventures.  It  was  dangerous  to  wait  long  when 
my  aunt  invited  replies,  and  before  I  had  time  to 
tliink  she  began  anew  to  tell  me  that  Darthea  liad 
come  at  once  to  see  her,  and  of  how  respectful  she 
was.  At  this  I  encouraged  my  aunt,  which  was 
rarely  needed,  and  then  heard  further  that  ^Irs. 
Peniston  would  remain  in  town,  ])crliaps  because  of 
Friend  Jcjscpli  Wanlt-r. 

Darthea  had  al.so  spoken  eagerly  of  Arthur.  His 
people  in  Wales  had  written  to  her :  Arthur's  father 
and  his  brother,  who  was  so  ill.     ''  I  could  not  but 


39^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


thank  her,"  said  my  aunt, ''  for  that  brave  visit  to  the 
jail,  as  to  which  she  might  have  written  to  me.  I  told 
her  as  much,  but  she  said  I  was  a  Whig,  and  outside 
the  lines,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  get  her  aunt  into 
trouble.  'Stuff!'  said  I;  'how  came  it  Mr.  Arthur 
never  knew  Hugh  ? '  '  How  could  he  ?  You  should 
have  seen  him,'  saj^s  my  httle  lady,  '  and  even  after 
he  was  well.  I  did  not  know  him,  and  how  should 
Mr.  Wynne  ? ' 

"  But,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  made  such  little  additions 
to  his  tale  as  I  dared,  but  not  all  I  wanted  to.  I 
promise  you  they  set  my  miss  to  thinking,  for  she 
got  very  red  and  said  it  was  sheer  nonsense.  She 
would  ask  you  herself.  She  had  a  pretty  picture  to 
show  me  of  Wyncote,  and  the  present  man  was  to  be 
made  a  baronet.  Can  a  good  girl  be  captured  by 
such  things  ?  But  the  man  has  some  charm,  Hugh. 
These  black  men"— so  we  called  those  of  dark  com- 
plexion—"are  always  dangerous,  and  this  special 
devil  has  a  tongue,  and  can  use  it  well." 

I  listened  to  my  aunt,  but  said  little.  What  chance 
had  I  to  make  Darthea  credit  me  ?  She  had  a  girl's 
desire  for  the  court  and  kings'  houses  and  rank; 
or  was  this  only  one  Darthea?  Could  that  other  be 
made  to  listen  to  a  plain  lieutenant  in  a  rebel  army  ? 
Perhaps  I  had  better  go  back  and  get  knocked  on 
the  head.  Would  she  love  me  the  better  for  proving 
Arthur  a  rascal  ? 

I  said  as  much  to  Aunt  Gainor.  At  this  she  got 
up,  crying,  "  Good  heavens !  there  is  a  Hessian  cock- 
roach !     They  are  twice  as  big  as  they  were.    What 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      397 

a  fool  yon  aro !  The  grirl  is  bog^innini::  to  be  in  donbt. 
I  am  sorry  you  liave  driven  tlie  man  away.  A  pretty 
tale  yoiu*  mother  had  in  Freneli  of  her  dear  Midi, 
of  the  man  who  would  have  Love  see,  and  pulled 
the  kerchief  off  his  eyes,  whereon  the  boy's  wincrs 
tumbled  off,  and  he  sat  down  and  cried  because  he 
could  no  longer  fly.  When  a  scamp  loves  a  good 
girl,  let  him  thank  the  devil  that  love  is  blind." 

Here  wa.s  Aunt  Gainor  sentimental,  and  clever  too. 
I  shook  my  head  sadly,  being,  as  a  man  should  be, 
humble-minded  as  to  women.  She  said  next  she 
would  see  my  father  at  once,  and  I  must  come  at 
eight  and  bring  Mr.  McLaue.  Diu-thea  would  be  with 
her,  and  a  friend  or  tAvo. 

I  went,  but  this  time  I  did  not  bring  my  command- 
ing officer.  Miss  Peniston  was  late.  In  all  her  life 
she  was  never  punctual,  nor  could  she  be.  Wliile 
we  waited  my  aunt  went  on  to  tell  me  that  Darthca 
wished  me  to  know  how  glad  Mr.  Wynne  was  I  had 
escaped  at  tlie  Misehianza.  An  impulse  of  a  soldier's 
duty  had  made  liim  seize  upon  me,  and  he  had  been 
happy  in  the  accident  which  aided  my  escape.  I  had 
done  a  brave  thing  to  venture  into  the  city,  and  she 
and  Mr.  Wynne  felt  strongly  what  a  calamity  my 
capture  would  have  been.  Darthea's  friends  were 
his  friends.  "  And  he  is  jealous  too,"  says  my  lady, 
"of  De  Lancey,  and  Moutresor— and— of  Mr.  Hugh 
Wynne." 

You  must  have  known  Mistress  Wynne  to  com- 
prfhf'nd  what  scorn  slie  ])ut  into  poor  Darthea's  sad 
excuses,  and  her  explanations  of  what  could  not  be 


398      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

explained.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  little  lady  who  was 
absent  and  was  getting  such  small  mercy.  It  was 
vain  to  try  to  stop  my  aunt.  That  no  man  and  few 
women  could  do.  I  did  at  last  contrive  to  leai'n  that 
she  had  said  no  more  of  the  visit  of  Arthur  to  the 
jail  than  that  I  did  not  seem  satisfied. 

I  had  rather  my  aunt  should  have  let  my  luckless 
love-affair  alone.  I  had  been  in  a  way  to  tell  her  of 
it,  but  now  I  wanted  no  interference.  I  feared  to 
talk  even  to  Jack  Warder  of  my  dear  Darthea.  That 
he  saw  thi'ough  me  and  her  I  have,  after  many  years, 
come  to  know,  as  these  pages  must  have  shown.  If 
to  speak  of  her  to  this  delicate-minded  friend  was 
not  at  this  time  to  my  taste,  you  may  rest  assured  I 
liked  not  my  aunt's  queer  way  of  treating  the  matter 
as  she  would  have  done  a  hand  at  piquet.  She  ended 
this  wandering  talk  with  her  usual  shrewd  bits  of 
advice,  asking  me,  as  she  stopped  short  in  her  walk, 
"  Have  you  a  little  sense  left  ? " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Then  get  your  head  to  help  that  idiot  your  heart. 
Leave  Darthea  to  herself.  Ride  with  Miss  Chew  or 
Miss  Redman.  Women  are  like  children.  Let  them 
alone,  and  by  and  by  they  will  sidle  up  to  you  for 
notice." 

When  the  town  was  in  Sir  William  Howe's  hands, 
my  aunt  had  rejected  all  her  Tory,  and  even  her 
neutral,  friends.  But  now  that  Sir  Henry  Clinton 
was  flying  across  the  Jerseys,  harassed  by  militia.,  and 
our  general  was  on  the  way  to  cross  the  Delaware 
after  them,  things  were  different.    Her  Tory  friends 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      399 

might  come  to  see  her  if  they  pleased.  Most  of  these 
dames  came  gladly,  likiug  my  aunt,  aud  having 
always  had  of  her  much  generous  kindness.  Bessy 
Ferguson  was  cross,  and  Mistress  Wynne  had  been 
forced  to  visit  her  first.  What  manner  of  peace  was 
made  I  did  not  hear ;  but  no  one  else  was  a  match 
at  piquet  for  ni}-  Aunt  Gainer,  and  doubtless  this 
helped  to  reconcile  the  lady.  I  gi-ieve  that  no  his- 
torian has  recorded  their  interview. 

When  I  wrote  of  it  to  Jack,  he  was  much  delighted, 
and  just  before  the  fight  at  Monmouth  wrote  me  a 
laughing  letter,  all  about  what  ni}'  aunt  aud  Mrs. 
Ferguson  must  have  said  on  this  occasion.  As  he 
knew  no  word  of  it,  I  could  never  see  how  he  was 
able  to  imagine  it.  Once,  later,  when  their  war  broke 
out  anew,  my  aunt  told  me  all  about  her  former 
encounter ;  and  so  much  like  was  it  to  what  Jack  had 
writ  that  I  laughed  outright.  My  aunt  said  there 
was  nothing  to  grin  at.  But  a  one-sided  laugli  is 
ever  the  merrier.  I  could  not  always  tell  what  ^Mis- 
tress  Wynne  would  do,  and  never  what  she  would 
say ;  but  Jack  could.  He  should  have  writ  books, 
but  he  never  did. 

I  had  heard  my  aunt's  wail  over  her  wardrobe,  and 
was  struck  dumb  at  her  appearance  when,  in  the 
evening,  I  returned  as  she  desired.  The  gods  and 
the  china  dragons  were  out,  and,  the  Hessian  devils 
having  l)een  driven  forth,  the  mansion  had  l)een 
swept  and  garnished,  the  rugs  were  down,  and  the 
floor  was  dangerously  polished. 

My  Aunt  Gainor  was  in  a  brocade  which  she  told 


400      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

me  was  flowered  beautiful  with  colours  very  lively. 
I  thought  they  were.  As  to  the  rest  of  her  toilet,  I 
am  at  a  loss  for  words.  The  overskirt  was  lute- 
string silk,  I  was  told.  The  hoops  were  vast ;  the 
dress  cut  square,  with  a  "  modesty-f euce "  of  stiff 
iace.  A  huge  high  cap  "with  wings  is  the  last 
thing,'"  cried  the  ladj^,  turning  round  to  be  seen, 
and  well  pleased  at  my  admiration.  She  was  an 
immense  and  an  amazing  figure.  I  did  wonder,  so 
big  she  was,  where  she  meant  to  put  the  other  women 
—and  I  said  as  much. 

"  Here  is  one,"  she  whispered,  "  who  will  like  your 
uniform  more  than  wiU  the  rest.  Mr.  Wynne  of  the 
army,  my  nephew.  Miss  Morris.  And  how  is  Mr. 
Gouverneur  Morris  f " 

We  fell  to  talking,  but  when  others  came  and 
were  presented  or  named  by  me  to  the  Wliig  lady, 
my  young  woman  said,  "  Ai-e  there  none  but  Tories  ? " 
And  she  was  short,  I  thought,  with  Mrs.  Ferguson, 
w^ho  came  in  high  good  humour  and  a  gown  of 
Venice  silk.  I  saw  Aunt  Gainor  glance  at  her  gold- 
laced  handkerchief. 

I  was  glad  to  see  them  all.  Very  soon  the  rooms 
were  well  filled,  and  here  were  Dr.  Rush  and  Charles 
Thomson,  the  secretary  of  Congress,  who  stayed  but 
a  little  while,  leaving  the  great  doctor  to  gi'owl  over 
the  war  with  Miss  Morris,  and  to  tell  her  how  ill  read 
was  our  great  chief,  and  how  he  could  not  spell,  and 
had  to  have  his  letters  writ  for  him  to  copy  like  a  boy. 
Mr.  Adams  had  said  as  much.  I  ventured  to  remark, 
having  by  this  time  come  to  understand  our  doctor, 


Hugh\\ynne:  Free  Quaker      401 

that  we  knew  better  iu  camp,  aud  that  at  least  our 
chief  understottd  the  ai*t  of  war.  The  doctor  was 
not  of  tliis  opinion,  aud  considered  General  Gates 
the  greater  man. 

Theu  I  left  them  to  welcome  Mrs.  Chew  and  the 
lovely  Margaret,  and  Miss  Shippeu,  and  last  my  Dar- 
thea  with  her  aunt,  who  wai>  as  thin  as  a  book-nuirker. 

"  Aunt,"  I  said  slyly, ''  what  is  this  ?    Tories  again  ?  " 

''  Be  quiet,  child !  You  have  pulled  their  teeth. 
You  will  .see  they  are  meek  enough.  The  dog  on  top 
can  always  forgive,  and  I  must  have  my  cards.  Be- 
have yourself !  How  handsome  you  are  !  Here  they 
come."  And  now  there  was  a  cross-fii'c  of  welcomes 
and  "  We  have  missed  you  so  much,"  and  "  How  well 
you  look ! "  and  fine  sweep  of  curtseys,  very  pretty 
and  refreshing  to  a  war-worn  veteran, 

I  bent  to  kiss  Mrs.  Shippen's  hand.  Mrs.  Fer- 
guson tapped  me  on  the  arm  with  her  fan,  whispering 
I  was  grown  past  the  kissing-agc,  at  whicli  I  cried 
that  would  never  be.  I  took  Darthea's  little  hand 
with  a  formal  word  or  two,  and,  biding  my  time,  sat 
do-s^-n  to  talk  with  the  two  Margarets,  whom  folks 
called  Pegg\',  although  both  were  like  stately  lilies, 
and  the  pet  name  had  no  kind  of  fitness. 

Tlie  ombre-tables  were  set  out  aud  ready,  and  it 
was  all  gay  and  merrj--,  and  as  if  there  might  never 
have  been  war,  cither  civil  or  social.  "  It  is  all  as 
meek  as  doves'  milk,"  whispered  Mistress  Wynne  over 
my  shouhh'r.  "  Go.ssip  and  cards  against  the  world 
for  pcaeemakers,  eh,  Hugh?"  Asstn-edly  hero  was 
a  beautiful  truce,  aud  all  the  world  amiable. 


402      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

The  powdered  heads  wagged;  brocade  and  sSk 
rustled ;  the  counters  rattled.  Fans  huge  as  sails  set 
little  breezes  going;  there  was  wise  neutrality  of 
speech,  King  Ombre  being  on  the  throne  and  every- 
body happy. 

Meanwhile  I  set  my  young  women  laughing  with 
an  account  of  how  a  Quaker  looked  in  on  them 
through  the  window  at  the  redcoat  ball,  but  of  the 
incident  in  the  garden  I  said  nothing,  nor  was  it 
known  beyond  those  immediately  concerned.  The 
two  Margarets  were  curious  to  hear  what  Mr.  Wash- 
ington looked  like,  and  one  miss  would  know  if  Mr. 
Arnold  was  a  dark  man,  hearing  with  the  delight  of 
girls  how  his  Excellency  gave  dinners  in  camp  and 
'  sat  on  one  side,  with  Mr,  Hamilton  or  Mr.  Tilghman 
at  the  top,  and  for  diet  potatoes  and  salt  herring, 
with  beef  when  it  was  to  be  had,  and  neither  plates 
nor  spoons  nor  knives  and  forks  for  all,  so  that  we 
had  to  boiTOw,  and  eat  by  turns. 

Miss  Morris,  just  come  to  town  with  good  Whig 
opinions,  was  uneasy  in  this  society,  and  said,  "  We 
shall  have  enough  of  everything  when  we  catch  Sir 
Henry  Clinton."  In  a  minute  there  would  have  been 
more  war  had  not  my  aunt  risen,  and  the  party 
turned  to  drink  chocolate  and  eat  cakes. 

After  a  world  of  little  gossip  they  settled  their 
debts  and  went  away,  all  but  Mrs.  Peniston  and  her 
niece,  my  aunt  declaring  that  she  wanted  the  elder 
lady's  advice  about  the  proper  mode  to  cool  black- 
berry jam.  For  this  sage  purpose  the  shadow-like 
form  of  Darthea's  aunt  in  gray  silk  went  out  under 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      403 

co^•er  of  my  aunt's;  large  figure,  and  Darthea  and  I 
were  left  jilone. 

How  pretty  she  wa.s  in  fair  white  niusUn  with  long 
gloves,  a  red  rosebud  in  each  sleeve,  and  only  a  trace 
of  powder  on  her  hair,  smiling,  and  above  all  women 
gi-aeefiU !  She  had  seemed  older  when  we  met  in 
the  Provostry,  and  now  to-day  was  slim  and  girl- 
like. I  do  not  know  where  she  got  that  trick  of 
change,  for  in  after-days,  when  in  the  fuller  bloom 
of  middle  age,  she  still  had  a  way  of  looking  at  times 
a  gay  and  heedless  young  woman.  She  had  now  so 
innocent  an  air  of  being  merely  a  sweet  child  that  a 
kind  of  wonder  possessed  me,  and  I  could  not  but  look 
at  her  with  a  gaze  perhaps  too  fixed  to  be  mannerly. 

"  Darthea,*'  I  said,  as  we  sat  down,  "  I  owe  my  life 
to  you  twice— twice." 

"  No,  no ! "  she  cried.  "  TVliat  could  I  do  but  go 
to  the  jail  T     Mi.ss  Wynne  was  away." 

"  Yini  might  have  told  my  father,"  I  said.  Why 
had  she  not? 

''  Mr.  Wynne  is  grown  older,  and— I—  There  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  and  Arthui*  was  gone  on  duty  for 
I  know  not  what.''  She  was  seeing  and  answering 
what  further  might  have  seemed  strange  to  me. 
"Aunt  Peniston  was  in  a  rage,  I  assure  you.  !My 
aunt  in  a  rage,  Mr.  Wjiine,  is  a  tempest  in  a  thimble. 
All  in  a  minute  it  boils  over  and  puts  out  the  little 
fire,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it,  and  she  a.sks  what 
ought  to  be  done.  But  now  I  am  penitent,  and  have 
been  scolded  by  Arthur.  I  will  never,  never  do  it 
any  more.     My  aunt  wa*5  right,  sii*." 


404      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


"I  think  you  gave  me  more  than  life,  Darthea, 
that  day.  And  did  you  think  I  would  take  the 
parole  ? " 

"Never  for  a  moment! "  she  cried,  with  flashing 
eyes.  "  I  would  have  taken  it,  but  I  want  my  friends 
to  be  wiser  and  stronger  than  I.  I— I  was  proud  of 
you  in  your  misery  and  ragged  blanket."  And  with 
this  the  wonderful  face  went  tender  in  a  moment, 
and  for  my  part  I  could  only  say,  "  Darthea !  Dar- 
thea ! " 

She  was  quick  to  see  and  to  fear,  and  to  avoid  that 
which  was  ever  on  my  lips  when  with  her,  and  which 
she  seemed  to  bid  to  live,  and  then  to  fly  from  as  if 
she  had  never  tempted  me. 

"Ah,  you  were  a  droll  figiu-e,  and  Arthur  could 
not  but  laugh  when  I  described  this  hero  in  a  blanket. 
It  was  then  he  told  me  more  fully  what  before  he 
had  wi'ote,  how  in  the  hurry  of  an  inspection  he  saw 
many  men  dying,  and  one  so  like  you  that  he  asked 
who  it  was,  and  was  given  another  name ;  but  now 
he  thought  it  must  have  been  you,  and  that  you  had 
perhaps  chosen,  why  he  knew  not,  a  name  not  your 
own,  or  you  had  been  misnamed  by  the  turnkey.  It 
was  little  wonder  where  men  were  dying  in  scores 
and  changed  past  recognition ;  it  was  no  wonder,  I 
say,  he  did  not  know  you,  Mr.  WjTine.  He  was  so 
sorry,  for  he  says  frankly  that  just  because  you  and 
he  are  not  very  good  friends— and  wh}^  are  you 
not?— he  feels  the  worse  about  it.  After  he  had 
scolded  me  well,  and  I  made  believe  to  cry,  he  said 
it  was  a  noble  and  brave  thing  I  had  done,  and  he 


HughWvnnc:  Free  Quaker      405 

felt  he  should  have  Wen  the  one  to  do  it  had  he 
knovni  in  season.  He  did  really  mean  to  get  tlie 
parole,  but  then  yon  ran  away.  And  you  do  see,  Mr. 
Wynne,  that  it  was  all  a  frijjflitful  mistake  of  Artliui*'s, 
and  he  is— he  must  be  sorry?" 

I  would  then  and  there  have  said  to  her  that  the 
man  was  a  liar,  and  had  meanly  left  me  t<>  die ;  but 
it  was  my  word  ajrainst  his,  and  Delaney  had  long 
ago  gotten  out  and  been  exchanged  and  gone  South, 
whither  I  knew  not.  As  of  course  she  must  trust 
the  man  she  loved,  if  I  were  to  sav  I  did  not  be- 
lieve  him  we  should  (quarrel,  and  I  should  see  her 
no  more. 

"My  dear  lady,"  I  said,  keeping  myself  well  in  hand, 
"  the  moral  is  that  women  should  be  sent  to  inspect 
the  hungty,  the  ragged,  the  frozen,  and  tlie  dying." 

I  saw  she  did  not  relish  my  answer.  Was  she 
herself  quite  satisfied?  Did  she  want  to  be  forti- 
fied in  her  love  and  tnist  by  me,  who  had  suffered  ? 
A  shadow  of  a  frown  was  on  her  lirow  for  a  moment, 
and  thon  she  said,  "  He  \\ill  •sn-ite  to  you.  Tie  prom- 
ised me  he  would  write  to  j'ou.  And  that  dear  old 
Sister  of  Charity  !  —you  must  go  and  tliank  her  at  the 
little  convent  beside  St.  Joseph's,  in  Willing's  Alley. 
You  upset  her  as  you  went  out  in  that  rude  fashion. 
Any  but  a  Quaker  would  have  stayed  to  apologise. 
Mr.  W}nmc  wjus  i>leased  I  went  to  the  jail  with  the 
dear  sister.  I  believe  the  man  really  thought  I 
would  have  gone  alone.  And  I  would ;  I  would ! 
Wlu'n  he  told  me  it  yyns  clever  and  modest  to  get  the 
sweet  old  papist  for  company,  I  swept  him  a  mighty 


4o6      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

ciu'tsey  and  thanked  him  and  puzzled  him,  which  is 
what  men  are  for." 

Sitting  in  the  open  bow-window  above  the  garden, 
my  Darthea  had  most  of  the  talk,  while,  when  I 
dared  no  longer  stare  at  her  changeful  face,  I  looked 
past  her  at  the  June  roses  swaying  in  the  open  win- 
dow-space. 

"  Yes,"  I  laughed,  "  that  is  what  men  are  for ;  but 
I  have  not  done  with  you.  I  have  also  to  thank  you 
for  my  escape  in  the  garden— you  and  Mr.  Andre. 
He  has  a  good  memory,  I  fancy." 

"  Oh,  the  fainting—  yes,"  said  Miss  Peniston,  lightly. 
"  It  was  fortunate  it  came  just  then.  And  Mr.  Wynne 
was  glad  enough  of  it  later.  He  said  it  had  saved 
him  from  the  most  horrible  regret  life  could  bring. 
If  he  had  but  had  time  to  think— or  had  known—" 

''Known  what?" 

"No  matter;  I  was  in  time  to  stop  myseK  from 
saying  a  foolish  thing.  Let  me  give  thanks  for  my 
escape.  I  have  a  restless  tongue,  and  am  apt  to  say 
what  I  do  not  mean ;  and  I  do  faint  at  nothing." 

"  It  was  very  opportune,  my  dear  Miss  Peniston." 

"La!  la!  as  aunt  says,  one  would  think  I  went 
faint  on  purpose,  in  place  of  its  being  the  heat,  and 
a  providential  accident,  and  very  anno}dng  too ;  not 
a  woman  anywhere  near  me." 

"  It  saved  a  worthless  life,"  I  said ;  "  and  but  for  it 
I  should  have  had  short  shrift  and  the  gaUows  on 
the  Common." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  returned.  "  That  is  not  pretty  talk. 
Your  cousin  is  unlucky,  he  says,  to  have  had  you  faU 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      407 

in  his  way  when  it  was  impossible  to  escape  from 
arrestinj»  vou.  He  told  nie  ^Ir.  Andre  assured  him 
he  could  have  done  no  other  thing,  and  that  it  was 
vain  to  rec^t  what  was  the  inevitable  duty  of  a 
soldier.  I  think  Arthur  was  the  most  pleased  of  all 
when  you  got  away.  •  I  must  say  you  went  very  fast 
for  so  grave  a  Quaker." 

"And  could  vt)u  see?''  said  I,  slvlv. 

"No,  of  c(»iu-se  not.  How  should  I,  and  I  in  a 
dead  faint  ?  Mr.  Antlre  told  me  next  day  he  thought 
that  dreadfid  rebel,  Mr.  McLane,  saved  your  life 
yhen  he  was  mean  enough,  just  in  the  middle  of  that 
beautiful  ball,  to  set  fire  to  something.  At  first  we 
took  it  for  the  fireworks.  But  tell  me  about  Miss 
Gainer's  girl-boy— our  own  dear  Jack." 

"  He  can  still  blush  to  beat  Miss  Franks,  and  he 
still  believes  me  to  be  a  great  man,  and— but  you  do 
not  want  to  hear  about  battles."' 

"  Do  I  not,  indeed  !  I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Jack 
in  a  battle ;  I  cannot  imagine  him  hurting  a  fly." 

"  The  last  I  saw,  at  Germantown,  of  Jack,  he  was 
raging  in  a  furious  mob  of  redcoats,  Anth  no  hat, 
and  that  sword  my  aunt  presented  cutting  and  par- 
rj-ing.  I  gave  him  up  for  lost,  but  he  never  got  a 
scrat<^'h,  I  like  him  best  in  camp  •w'ith  starving, 
half-naked  men.  I  have  soon  liini  give  his  last  loaf 
away.  You  should  hear  Mr.  Hamilton  — that  is  his 
Excellency's  aide- talk  of  Ja<'k ;  how  like  a  tender 
woman  he  was  among  men  who  were  sick  and  starv- 
ing. Hamilton  told  me  how  once,  when  Ja^'k  said 
jirayers   beside  a  dying   soldier   and   some   fellow 


4o8      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

laughed,— men  get  hard  in  war,— our  old  Quaker 
friend  Colonel  Forest  would  have  had  the  beast  out 
and  shot  him,  if  the  fool  had  not  gone  to  Jack  and 
said  he  was  sorry.  Every  one  loves  the  man,  and 
no  wonder." 

<'  He  is  fortunate  in  his  friend,  Mr.  Wynne.  Men 
do  not  often  talk  thus  of  one  another.  I  have  heard 
him  say  as  much  or  more  of  you.  Mistress  Wynne 
says  it  is  a  love-affair.  Are  men's  friendships  or 
women's  the  best,  I  wonder?"  I  said  that  was  a 
question  beyond  me,  and  went  on  to  tell  her  that  I 
should  be  in  town  but  a  few  days,  and  must  join  mj 
regiment  as  soon  as  General  Arnold  could  do  with- 
out us,  which  I  believed  would  be  within  a  week. 

She  was  as  serious  as  need  be  now,  asking  intelli- 
gent questions  as  to  the  movements  of  the  armies 
and  the  chances  of  peace.  I  had  to  show  her  why 
we  lost  the  fight  at  Grermantown,  and  then  explain 
that  but  for  the  fog  we  should  have  won  it,  which 
now  I  doubt. 

Mr.  Andre  had  told  her  that  it  was  because  of  our 
long  rifles  that  the  enemy  lost  so  many  officers,  picked 
off  out  of  range  of  musket,  and  did  I  think  this  was 
true  ?     It  seemed  to  her  unfair  and  like  murder. 

I  thought  she  might  be  thinking  of  my  cousin's 
chances,  for  here,  after  a  pause,  she  rose  suddenly 
and  said  it  was  late  and  that  the  strawberry  jam  must 
be  cool,  or  the  discussion  over  it  hot,  to  keep  Mrs. 
Peniston  so  long.  My  aunt  would  have  had  me  stay 
for  further  talk,  but  I  said  I  was  tii*ed,  and  went  away 
home  feeling  that  the  day  had  been  full  enough  forme. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      409 

A  little  later,  one  uftonioon  in  this  June,  I  found 
my  aunt  seated  so  deep  in  thouglit  that  I  asked  her 
the  cause. 

"  Presently,"  slie  said.  "  I  have  meant  to  tell  yon, 
but  I  have  delayed ;  I  have  delayed.  Now  you  must 
know.''  Here  she  rose  and  began  to  stride  restlessly 
among  the  furniture,  walking  to  and  fro  with  appa- 
rent disregard  of  the  eliina  gods  and  Delft  cows.  She 
reminded  me  once  more  of  my  father  in  his  better 
days.  Her  liands  were  clasped  behind  her,  which  is, 
I  think,  a  rare  attitude  with  women.  Iler  large  head, 
cl"0^^^led  vrith  a  great  coil  of  gray  hair  which  seemed 
to  suit  its  miussive  build,  was  bent  forward  as  if  in 
thought. 

"^VTiat  is  it,  Aunt  Gainor?" 

She  did  not  pause  in  her  walk  or  look  up,  and  only 
motioned  me  to  a  seat,  saying,  "  Sit  down.  I  must 
think ;  I  must  think." 

It  was  unlike  lier.  Generally,  no  matter  how  seri- 
ous the  thing  on  her  mind,  she  was  apt  to  come  at 
it  through  some  trivial  cliat ;  but  now  her  long  ab- 
sence of  speech  troubled  me. 

I  sat  at  least  ten  minutes,  and  then,  uneasy,  said, 
"  Aunt  Gainor,  is  it  Darthea  1 " 

"  No,  you  fool !  "  And  she  went  on  her  wandering 
way  among  the  crackled  gods.  "Now  I  will  talk, 
Hugh,  and  do  not  interrupt  me.  You  always  do;" 
but,  as  Jack  Warder  says,  no  one  ever  did  success- 
fully int<'rrupt  Miss  Wynne  except  I\Ii.ss  Wynne. 

She  sat  down,  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  as 
men  do  when  idone  with  men,  and  went  on,  as  I  re* 


41  o      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

call  it,  to  this  effect,  and  quite  in  her  ordinary  man- 
ner :  "  When  the  British  were  stni  hei'e,  late  in  May 
I  had  a  note  through  the  lines  from  Mr.  Warder  as 
to  the  confusion  in  my  house,  and  some  other  matters. 
He  got  for  me  a  pass  to  come  in  and  attend  to  these 
things.  I  stayed  three  days  with  Mrs,  Peniston  and 
Darthea.  While  here  the  second  day  I  was  bid  to 
sup  at  Parson  Duche's,  and  though  T  hated  the  lot  of 
them,  I  had  had  no  news  nor  so  much  as  a  game  of 
cards  for  an  age,  and  so  I  went.  Now  don't  grin 
at  me. 

"When  I  was  to  leave  no  coach  came,  as  I  had 
ordered,  and  no  chair,  either.  There  was  Mrs.  Fer- 
guson had  set  up  a  chaise.  She  must  offer  me  to  be 
set  down  at  home.  I  said  my  two  legs  were  as  good 
as  her  horses',  and  one  of  them— I  mean  of  hers — 
has  a  fine  spavin ;  as  to  Mrs.  Mischief's  own  legs,  they 
are  so  thin  her  garters  will  not  stay  above  her  ankles. 

"I  walked  from  Third  street  over  Society  HiE, 
thinking  to  see  your  father,  and  to  find  a  big  stick 
for  company  across  the  bridges." 

She  was  given  to  going  at  night  where  she  had 
need  to  go,  with  a  great  stick  for  privateersmen,  the 
vagabond,  drunken  Hessians,  and  other  street  pirates. 
I  can  see  her  now,  shod  with  goloe-shoes  against  mud 
or  snow,  with  her  manhke  walk  and  independent  air, 
quite  too  formidable  to  suggest  attack. 

"I  went  in  at  the  back  way,"  she  continued;  "not 
a  servant  about  but  Tom,  sound  asleep  at  the  kitchen 
fire.  I  went  by  him,  and  from  the  hall  saw  your 
father,  also  in  deep  slumber  in  his  arm-chair.    I  got 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      411 

me  a  candle  and  went  upstairs  to  look  how  things 
were.  The  house  was  in  vile  disorder,  and  dh-ty  past 
belief.  As  to  your  own  clianiber,  where  that  scamp 
Arthur  slept,  it  was— well,  no  matter. 

"As  I  went  downstaii's  and  into  the  back  dining- 
room  I  heard  the  latch  of  the  hall  door  rattle,  '  Is 
it  Ai'thur  T '  thought  I ;  and  of  no  mind  to  see  him,  I 
sat  down  and  put  out  my  candle,  meaning  to  wait  till 
he  was  come  in,  and  then  to  slip  out  the  back  way. 
The  next  moment  I  lieiu-d  Arthur's  voice  and  your 
father's.  Both  dooi-s  into  the  front  room  were  wide 
open,  and  down  I  sat  quietly,  \\'ith  a  good  mind  to 
hear.  It  is  well  I  did.  I  suppose  you  would  have 
marched  in  and  said,  '  Take  care  how  you  talk  ;  I  am 
listening.'  Very  fine,  sir.  But  this  was  an  enemy. 
You  he,  cheat,  spy,  steal,  and  mm*der  in  war.  How 
was  I  worse  than  von  ? " 

"  But,  dear  Aunt  Gainor— " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  su*.  I  sat  still  as  a  mouse." 
My  aunt  as  a  mouse  tickled  my  fancy.  There  may 
be  such  in  my  friend  Mr,  Swift's  Brobdingnag. 

*'  I  liiitcned.  Master  Wynne  is  pleasant,  and  has 
had  a  trifle  too  much  of  Mr,  Somebody's  Madeira. 
He  is  affectionate,  and  your  fatlier  sits  up,  and,  as 
Dr.  Rush  tells  me,  is  cleai'  of  heail  after  his  sleep, 
or  at  least  for  a  time. 

'•  My  gentleman  says,  '  I  may  have  to  leave  you 
soon,  my  dear  cousin.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  little. 
Is  there  any  one  in  the  back  room?'  As  there  is  no 
one,  he  goes  on,  and  asks  liis  cousin  to  tell  him  about 
the  title  to  Wyucote  as  he  had  promised.   His  brother 


412      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


was  ill  and  uneasy,  and  it  was  all  they  had,  a,nd  it 
was  a  poor  thing  after  all.  Your  father  roused  up, 
and  seemed  to  me  to  fully  understand  aU  that  fol- 
lowed. He  said  how  fond  he  was  of  Arthur,  and 
how  much  he  wished  it  was  he  who  was  to  have  the 
old  place.  Ai-thui*  replied  that  it  was  only  in  his 
father's  interest  he  spoke. 

"  Then  they  talked  on,  and  the  amount  of  it  was 
pretty  much  this.  How  many  lies  Arthur  got  into  the 
talk  the  Lord— or  the  devil— knows !  This  was 
what  I  gathered :  Your  grandfather  Hugh,  under 
stress  of  circumstances,  as  you  know,  was  let  out  of 
Sln'ewsbury  jail  with  some  understanding  that  he  was 
to  sell  his  estate  to  his  brother,  who  had  no  scruples 
as  to  tithes,  and  to  go  away  to  Pennsylvania.  This 
I  knew,  but  it  seems  that  this  brother  William  was 
a  Wynne  of  the  best,  and,  as  is  supposed,  sold  back 
the  estate  privately  to  Hugh  for  a  trifle,  so  that  at 
any  time  the  elder  brother  could  reclaim  his  home. 
What  became  of  the  second  deed  thus  made  was 
what  Arthui*  wanted  to  know. 

"Your  father  must  have  it  somewhere,  Hugh. 
Now  says  Arthur,  '  We  are  poor,  cousin ;  the  place 
is  heavilv  encumbered ;  some  coal  has  been  found. 
It  is  desirable  to  sell  parts  of  the  estate ;  how  hon- 
estly can  my  father  make  a  title  ? '  Your  great-uncle 
William  died,  as  we  know,  Hugh,  and  the  next  bro- 
ther's son,  who  was  Owen  and  is  Arthur's  father, 
had  a  long  minority.  When  he  got  the  place,  being 
come  of  age,  some  memoranda  of  the  transaction 
turned  up.     It  was  not  a  rare  one  in  older  Round- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      413 

head  days.  Nothing  was  done,  and  time  ran  on.  Now 
the  occupant  is  getting  on  in  years,  and  as  his  sec- 
ond son  Ai-thur  is  ordered  hither  on  service,  it  was 
thought  as  well  that  he  should  make  inquiry.  The 
older  i>(iuires  had  some  vague  tradition  about  it.  It 
was  become  worth  while,  as  I  inferred,  to  clear  the 
business,  or  at  need  to  effect  a  compromise.  Half 
of  this  I  heai'd,  and  the  rest  I  got  by  thinking  it  over. 
Am  I  plain,  Hugh?"  She  was,  as  usual.  "Your 
father  surprised  me.  He  spoke  out  in  his  old  delib- 
erate way.  He  said  the  deed— some  such  deed— was 
among  his  father's  papers ;  he  had  seen  it  long  ago. 
He  did  not  want  the  place.  He  was  old  and  had 
enough,  and  it  should  be  settled  to  Master  Arthm-'s 
liking. 

"  Your  cousin  then  said  some  few  words  about  you. 
I  did  not  hear  what,  but  your  father  at  once  broke 
out  in  a  fierce  voice,  and  cried,  *  It  is  too  true ! '  Well, 
Hugh,"  she  went  on,  "  it  is  of  no  use  to  make  things 
worse  between  you." 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  do  not  teU  me.     Was  that  all  ? " 

"Not  quite.  Master  Arthur  is  to  have  the  deed 
if  ever  it  be  found,  and  ^nth  your  father's  and  your 
grandfather's  methodical  ways,  that  is  pretty  sure  to 
happen." 

"  I  do  not  care  much.  Aunt  Gainor,  except  that—" 

"I  know,"  she  cried;  "anybody  else  might  have 
it,  but  not  Arthur." 

"Yes;  unless  Darthea— " 

"  I  understand,  sir ;  and  now  I  see  it  all.  The  elder 
brother  will  die.     The  father  is  old,  the  estate  valu- 


414      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

able,  and  this  lying  scamp  with  his  winning  ways 
will  be  master  of  Wyncote,  and  with  a  clear  title  if 
your  father  is  able  to  bring  it  about.  He  can,  Hugh, 
unless — " 

"What,  aunt?" 

"  Unless  you  intervene  on  account  of  my  brother's 
mental  state." 

"  That  I  will  never  do !     Never ! " 

"  Then  you  will  lose  it." 

"  Yes ;  it  must  go.     I  care  but  little,  aunt." 

"  But  I  do,  sir.     You  are  Wynne  of  Wyncote." 

I  smiled,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  The  man  stayed  awhile  longer,  but  your  father 
after  that  soon  talked  at  random,  and  addressed 
Arthur  as  Mr.  Montresor.  I  doubt  if  he  remembered 
a  word  of  it  the  day  after.  When  he  left  and  went 
upstairs  your  father  fell  into  sleep  again.  I  went 
away  home  alone,  and  the  day  after  to  the  Hill  Farm." 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,"  I  said.  ''  And  did  he  get 
the  deed  before  the  army  left  ?  " 

My  aunt  thought  not.  "  Mason  says  all  the  papers 
are  at  the  counting-house,  and  that  up  to  this  time 
your  father  has  made  no  special  search.  It  was  but 
two  weeks  or  less  before  they  left  town." 

It  was  a  simple  way  to  trap  an  over-cunning  man, 
and  it  much  amused  me,  who  did  not  take  the  deed 
and  estate  matter  to  heart  as  did  my  aunt.  When 
she  said,  "  We  must  find  it,"  I  could  but  say  that  it 
was  my  father's  business,  and  could  wait ;  so  far,  at 
least,  as  I  was  concerned,  I  would  do  nothing.  Of 
course  I  told  it  aU  to  Jack  when  next  we  met. 


XXITI 

(|N  Suiulay,  the  21st  of  June,  while  oiir 
chief  was  erossiuji^  into  the  Jerseys,  I  was 
hearing  at  Christ  Church,  for  the  fii'st 
time,  the  words  of  prayer  in  wliich  Wil- 
hani  White  commended  Congi-essandour 
armies  and  theii*  great  leader  to  the  protecting  mercy 
of  Almighty  God.  General  Arnold  was  already  busy 
witli  the  great  household  and  equipage  which  soon 
did  so  much  to  involve  him  in  temi)tations  gi-owing 
out  of  his  fondness  for  display.  The  militia  were 
unwilling  to  act  as  a  body-guard,  or  to  stand  sen- 
tries l)eside  the  gi-eat  lamp-posts  at  his  door.  Nor 
did  McLane  and  the  re.'it  of  us  fancy  the  social  and 
guard  duties  which  the  general  exacted  ;  but  we  had 
to  obey  orders,  and  were  likely,  I  feai'ed,  to  remain 
long  in  this  ungrateful  service. 

On  June  30  we  heard  of  the  glorious  battle  at 
^lonmouth,  and  with  surprise  of  General  Lee's  dis- 
grace. On  the  3d  of  July  came  Jack  with  a  bayonet- 
thnist  in  liis  right  .«<houlder  and  a  nasty  cut  over 
the  left  temi)le.  lie  was  al»le  to  be  afoot,  but  was 
quite  unfit  for  service.  I  heard  from  him  of  tlie 
si)leiidid  courage  and  judgUK'nt  sliowii  by  his  Excel- 
lency, and  of  tlie  profane  and  terrible  language  he 

4^5 


41 6      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

had  used  to  that  traitor  Lee.  Jack  said:  "I  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  lot  of  seared  men,  with  a  leader  who 
wanted  only  to  get  awa5\  And  then  the  general 
rode  up,  and  all  was  changed.  I  think,  Hugh,  he 
was  hke  an  angiy  god  of  war.  I  should  have  died 
of  the  things  he  said  to  Mr.  Lee." 

When,  long  after  this,  in  July,  '79,  his  Excellency 
issued  that  severe  order  about  swearing,  how  it  was 
against  all  religion,  decency,  and  order.  Jack  was 
much  amused.  Like  the  army  in  Flanders,  our  own 
army  solaced  their  empty  stomachs  with  much  bad 
language.  But,  as  Jack  observed,  "  There  is  a  time 
for  everj^thing ;  Mr.  Lee  did  catch  it  hot." 

McLane  soon  left  us,  glad  to  get  away.  Had  he 
stayed  much  longer  there  would  have  been  one 
more  sad  moth  in  the  pretty  net  into  which  fell  all 
who  were  long  in  the  company  of  our  fatal  Darthea. 
I  too  applied  for  active  duty,  but  some  influence, 
probably  that  of  General  Arnold,  came  in  the  way 
and  kept  me  in  the  city. 

Very  soon,  to  my  pleasure,  I  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Hamilton,  inclosing  my  commission  as 
captain  in  the  Third  Regiment  of  the  Pennsylvania 
line,  and  wdth  it,  not  to  my  pleasure,  an  order  to  re- 
cruit in  and  near  the  city.  Rather  later  the  general 
asked  me,  as  I  was  but  little  occupied,  to  act  as  an 
extra  aide  on  his  staff,  a  position  which  might  have 
been  my  ruin,  as  I  shall  by  and  by  relate. 

Jack's  hurts  turning  out  worse  than  was  antici- 
pated, he  was  of  no  use  in  camp,  and  remained  at  home 
to  be  petted  and  fussed  over  by  my  Aunt  Gainor. 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker      417 

After  a  month  or  two  he  was  able  to  go  about  with 
his  lu-m  in  a  shug,  and  to  be  greatly  noticed  by  the 
Whig  women.  Very  soon  he  was  caught,  like  me, 
in  a  ceaseless  round  of  all  manner  of  gaieties.  He 
shortly  grew  weary  of  it,  and  fell  back  on  his  books 
and  the  society  of  the  many  who  loved  him— above 
all,  that  of  my  aimt  and  Darthea.  For  me  there  was 
no  escape,  as  my  own  dissi])ations  were  chiefly  those 
of  official  duty,  and  in  company  witli  my  chief. 

Congi-ess  was  still  in  session,  but  from  it  were  miss- 
ing Adams,  Franklin,  Uenry,  Jay,  and  Kutledge,  who 
were  elsewhere  fiUing  posts  of  importance.  It  had 
no  fully  recognised  powers,  and  the  want  of  more 
distinct  union  was  beginning  to  be  sadly  felt.  Had 
not  the  ruin  of  the  Conway  cabal  and  the  profound 
trust  of  the  people  lifted  Washington  into  a  position 
of  autliority,  the  fears  and  predictions  of  men  like 
my  friend  Wilson  would  have  been  fully  justified. 
Intrigues,  ruinous  metliods  of  finance,  appointments 
given  to  untried  foreign  officers  who  were  mere  ad- 
venturers—all these  and  baser  influences  were  work- 
ing toward  the  ruin  of  our  cause. 

Our  own  city  went  wild  that  winter.  The  Tories 
Were  sharply  dealt  with  at  first,  but,  as  many  of 
them  were  favoured  by  the  general  in  command, 
they  soon  came  back  in  mischievous  numbers.  The 
more  moderate  neutrals  oj>cncd  their  doors  to  all 
parties.  The  general  began  to  be  at  ease  in  the 
homes  of  the  proj)rietary  set,  and,  buying  the  great 
house  of  Mount  Pleasant,  made  court  to  the  lovely 
Margaret  hJhippeu,  and  was  foremost  in  a  display  of 
tt 


4 1 8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

excess  and  luxury  sucli  as  annoyed  and  troubled 
those  who  saw  him  hand  and  glove  with  the  Toiy 
gentlemen,  and  extravagant  beyond  anything  hith- 
erto seen  in  the  quiet  old  city  of  Penn. 

At  this  time  the  Congress  often  sat  with  but  a 
dozen  members.  It  was  no  longer  the  dignified  body 
of  seventy-six.  Officers  came  and  went.  Men  like 
Robert  Morris  and  Dr.  Rush  shook  their  heads. 
Clinton  lay  in  New  York,  watched  by  Washington, 
and  in  the  South  there  was  disaster  after  disaster, 
while  even  our  best  men  wearied  of  the  war,  and 
asked  anxiously  how  it  was  to  end. 

Recruiting  in  the  face  of  such  a  state  of  things 
was  slow  indeed.  I  had  little  to  do  but  wait  on  the 
general,  read  to  my  aunt,  ride  with  her  and  Darthea, 
or  shoot  ducks  with  Jack  when  weather  permitted  j 
and  so  the  long  winter  wore  on. 

With  Darthea  I  restrained  my  useless  passion,  and 
contented  myself  with  knowing  that  we  were  day  by 
day  becoming  closer  friends.  If  Arthur  wrote  to  her 
or  not,  I  could  not  teU.  She  avoided  mentioning 
him,  and  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  shall  let  Jack's  diary  teU— at  this  time  it  was 
very  fuU— what  chanced  in  midwinter.  Alas,  my 
dear  Jack ! 

"  It  has,"  he  wrote,  "  been  a  season  of  foolish  dis- 
sipation. While  the  army  suffers  for  everything, 
these  fools  are  dancing  and  gambling,  and  General 

A the  worst  of  all,  which  seems  a  pity  in  so  good 

a  soldier.     He  is  doing  us  a  mighty  harm. 

"  To-day  has  been  for  me  a  sad  one.    I  shall  think 


Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker      4 1  9 

ever  of  my  foUy  with  remorse.  I  set  it  down  as  a 
lesson  to  be  read.  We  liad  a  great  sleighing-frolic 
to  Cliveden.  There  were  all  the  Tories,  and  few 
else— the  general  driving  Peggy  Shippen,  and  I  Dar- 
thea.  Mistress  Wynne  would  have  none  of  it.  '  We 
were  no  worse  off  under  Howe,'  she  says ; '  Mr.  Arnold 
has  no  sense  and  no  judgment.'  It  is  true,  I  fear, 
Mrs.  Peniston,  half  froze,  went  along  in  our  old 
sleigh.  We  drove  up  to  the  stone  steps  of  Cliveden 
about  seven  at  night— a  fine  moonlight,  so  that  the 
stone  vases  on  the  roof,  crowned  with  their  carved 
pineapples,  stood  out  against  the  sky.  The  A^ndows 
were  all  aglow,  and  neither  doors  nor  shutters  were 
as  yet  fully  repaired. 

"We  had  a  warm  welcome,  and  stood  about  the 
ample  fires  while  the  ladies  went  men-ily  upstairs 
to  leave  their  cloaks.  I  looked  about  me  euri- 
cusl}',  for  there  were  dozens  of  bullet-marks  on  the 
plaster  and  the  woodwork.  It  had  been  a  gallant 
defence,  and  cleverly  contrived.  Soon  came  down 
the  sta.irs  a  bevy  of  laughing  girls  to  look,  with 
hushed  voices,  at  the  blood-stains  on  the  floor  and  the 
dents  the  muskets  had  made.  They  did  think  to 
U'as.e  me  by  praising  Colonel  Musgrave,  who  had 
commanded  the  British;  ])ut  I,  not  to  be  outdone, 
declared  him  the  liravest  man  alive.  Darthea  smiled, 
but  said  ncjthiug,  and  for  that  I  loved  her  better  than 
ever. 

"Then  we  fell  to  chatting,  and  presently  she  said, 
'Madam  Chew,  Mr.  Ward<'r  is  to  show  me  where  the 
troops  lay,  and  Mr.  Wayne's  brigade;  and  who  will 


420      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

come  too  ? '  There  were  volunteers,  but  once  outside 
they  found  it  cold,  and  Darthea,  saying,  '  We  shall 
be  gone  but  a  minute,'  walked  with  me  around  the 
stone  outbuilding  to  northwest.  She  was  very 
thoughtful  and  quiet  this  night,  looking  as  sweet  as 
ever  a  woman  could  in  a  gray  fur  coat  against  the 
moon-lit  drifts  of  snow.  '  Over  there,'  I  said, '  across 
the  road,  were  oiu*  poor  little  four-pounders;  and  be- 
yond yonder  wall  our  chief  held  a  brief  council  of 
war  J  and  just  there  in  the  garden  lay  my  own  men 
and  Hugh,  and  some  Maryland  ti'oops,  among  the 
box  where  we  used  to  play  hide-and-find.' 

"  On  this  Darthea  said,  '  Let  me  see  the  place,'  and 
we  walked  down  the  garden,  a  gentle  excitement 
showing  in  her  ways  and  talk;  and  I— ah  me,  that 
night ! 

"  '  I  must  see,'  she  said,  '  where  the  dead  lie ;  near 
the  garden  wall,  is  it  ? ' 

" 'Here,'  said  I— 'ours  and  theirs.' 

" '  In  the  peace  which  is  past  understanding,'  said 
Darthea.  Then,  deep  in  thought,  she  turned  from 
the  house  and  into  the  woods  a  little  beyond,  not 
saying  a  word.  Indeed,  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard, 
except  the  creak  and  craunch  of  the  dry  snow  under 
our  feet.  A  few  paces  farther  we  came  to  the  sum- 
mer-house, set  on  circular  stone  steps,  and  big  enough 
to  dine  in.  There  she  stood,  saying,  'I  cannot  go 
back  yet ;  oh,  those  stiU,  still  dead  !  Don't  speak  to 
me— not  for  a  little  whUe.'  She  stayed  thus,  looking 
up  at  the  great  white  moon,  while  I  stood  by,  and 
none  other  near. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      421 

" '  I  am  better  now,  Jack,  and  yon  will  not  tell  of 
how  foolish  I  was— but— ' 

"I  said  there  was  some  sweet  folly,  if  she  hked 
so  to  call  it,  which  was  better  than  wisdom.  And 
then  how  it  was  I  know  not,  nor  ever  shall.  I  felt 
mvself  flush  and  tremble.  It  is  mv  foolisli  way  when 
in  danger,  being  by  nature  timid,  and  forced  to  exer- 
cise nUe  over  myself  at  such  seasons. 

"She  said,  'What  is  it.  Jack?'  for  so  she  often 
called  me  when  we  were  alone,  although  Hugh  was 
Mr.  Wpine.     The  ways  of  women  are  strange. 

"  I  couhl  not  help  it,  and  yet  I  knew  Hugh  loved 
her.  I  knew  also  that  she  was  surely  to  marry  Mr. 
Arthur  Wynne.  I  was  wrong,  but,  God  help  us ! 
who  is  not  wrong  at  times  ?  I  said  :  *  Darthea,  I  love 
you.  If  it  were  to  be  Hugh  I  should  never  say  so.' 
I  cared  nothing  about  the  other  man ;  he  hates  my 
Hugh. 

*'  *  Oh,  Jack,  Jack  !  you  hurt  me  ! '  Never  was  any- 
thing so  sweet  and  tender.  Her  great  eyes— like 
Madam  Wynne's  that  were— filled  and  ran  over. 
*0h.  Jack  I '  she  cried,  'must  I  hurt  you  too,  and  is  it 
my  fault?  Oh,  my  dear  Jack,  whom  I  love  and 
honour,  I  can't  love  von  this  wav.  I  can't— I  can't. 
And  I  am  sorrj'.  I  must  marry  Arthur  Wynne;  I 
have  promised.  You  men  think  we  women  give  our 
hearts  lightly,  and  take  them  again,  as  if  they  were 
mere  coimtci-s ;  and  I  am  troubled.  Jack,  and  no  ono 
knows  it.  I  mu.st  not  talk  of  that.  I  wish  you  would 
all  go  away.  I  ciin't  man*}'  you  all.'  And  she  began 
to  be  agitated,  and  to  laugh  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 


422      HughWVnne:  Free  Quaker 


me  quite  strange  and  out  of  place ;  but  then  I  know 
little  about  T\'omen. 

''I  could  but  say:  'Forgive  me;  I  have  hurt  you 
whom  I  love.  I  will  never  do  it  more— never.  But, 
dear  Darthea,  you  \\dll  let  me  love  you,  because  I  can- 
not help  it,  and  this  will  all  be  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
To  hurt  you— to  hurt  you  of  all  the  world !  I  had 
no  right  to  ask  you.' 

" '  Don't,'  she  said,  with  a  great  sob,  which  seemed 
to  break  my  heart. 

"'Darthea/  I  said— 'Darthea,  do  not  marry  that 
man !  He  is  cruel ;  he  is  hard ;  he  does  not  love  you 
as  my  Hugh  loves  you.' 

" '  Sir,'  she  said,  with  such  sudden  dignity  that  I 
was  overcome,  and  fell  back  a  pace,  '  I  am  promised ; 
let  that  suffice.  It  is  cold ;  let  us  go  in.  It  is  cold- 
it  is  cold ! ' 

"I  had  never  seen  her  like  this.  I  said:  'Cer- 
tainly ;  I  should  not  have  kept  you.  I  was  thought- 
less.' And  as  she  said  nothing  in  reply,  I  went  after 
her,  having  said  my  say  as  I  never  intended,  and 
more  than  was  perhaps  wise.  At  the  door  she  tm-ned 
about,  and,  facing  me,  said  abruptly,  with  her  dear 
face  all  of  a  flush:  'Do  not  let  this  trouble  you.  I 
am  not  good  enough  to  make  it  worth  while.  I  have 
been  a  foolish  girl,  discontented  with  our  simple 
ways,  wanting  what  I  have  not.  I  have  cried  for 
toys,  and  have  got  them,  and  now  I  don't  care  for 
them ;  but  I  have  promised.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ?  I 
have  promised— I  have  promised.' 

"  She  stayed  for  no  answer,  but  went  in.   It  seemed 


Hug.  Wynn,.    ^ree  Quakei       423 


to  me  a  singular  speech,  and  to  mean  more  than  was 
said.  The  repeating  of  one  phrase  over  and  over 
api)eared  meant  to  reinforce  a  doubtful  purpose.  I 
think  she  cares  little  for  Mr.  Arthur  ^\'vuue,  but 
who  can  say  1     Darthea  is  full  of  sui'prises. 

"  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  Hugh  and  knows  it  not, 
or  that  she  has  such  a  strong  sense  of  honour  that  it 
is  hard  for  her  to  break  her  word  ?  She  does  not  be- 
lieve this  man  to  be  bad.  That  is  sure.  If  ever  I 
can  make  her  see  him  as  I  see  him,  he  will  hold  her 
not  an  hour.  I  shall  disturb  her  life  no  more.  Had 
she  taken  me  to-day,  I  know  not  what  would  have 
come  of  it.  I  am  not  strong  of  will,  like  Hugh. 
God  knows  best.     I  will  ask  no  more." 

I  was  an  old  man  when  I,  Hugh  Wjiine,  read 
these  pages,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  they  cost 
me  some  tears. 

So  far  ais  I  remember,  neither  Jack  nor  Darthea 
betrayed  by  their  manner  what  I  learned  nauglit  of 
for  so  many  yeai*s.  Neither  did  my  Aunt  Gainor's 
shrewdness  get  any  hint  of  what  passed  at  Cliveden. 
I  recall,  however,  that  Jack  became  more  and  more 
eager  to  rejoin  his  regiment,  and  this  he  did  some 
two  weeks  later. 

My  father's  condition  waa  such  as  at  times  to 
alarm  me,  and  at  last  I  proposed  to  him  to  see  Dr. 
Hush.  To  my  suq)rise,  he  consented.  I  say  to  my 
8urj)rise,  for  he  had  a  vast  distrust  of  doctors,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  had  never  needed  their  help.  The 
day  after  the  do<'toi*'s  visit  I  saw  our  great  physician, 
whom  now  all  the  world  has  learned  to  revere,  and 


424      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


who  was  ever  more  wise  in  matters  of  medicine  than 
in  matters  of  state. 

He  told  me  that  my  father  was  beginning  to  have 
some  failure  of  brain  because  of  his  arteries  being 
older  than  the  rest  of  him,  which  I  did  not  quite  com- 
prehend. He  had,  he  said,  losses  of  memory  which 
were  not  constant.  Especially  was  he  affected  with 
forgetfulness  as  to  people,  and  for  a  time  mistook 
them,  so  that  for  a  while  he  had  taken  Dr.  Rush  for 
his  old  clerk  Mason.  The  doctor  said  it  was  more 
common  to  lack  remembrance  of  places.  In  my 
father's  condition  he  might  take  one  man  for  an- 
other, and  to-morrow  be  as  clear  as  to  his  acquain- 
tance as  ever  he  had  been ;  but  that  as  to  business, 
as  was  in  such  cases  rare,  his  mind  continued  to  be 
lucid,  except  at  times,  when  his  memory  would  sud- 
denly fail  him  for  a  few  minutes.  The  doctor  saw 
no  remedy  for  his  condition,  and  I  mention  it  only 
because  my  father's  varying  peculiarities  came  in  a 
measure  to  affect  me  and  others  in  a  way  of  which 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak. 

My  sense  of  his  state  did  much  to  make  me  more 
tender  and  more  able  to  endure  the  sad  outbreaks  of 
passion  which  Dr.  Rush  taught  me  were  to  be  looked 
for.  Nor  was  my  aunt  less  troubled  than  I.  Indeed, 
from  this  time  she  showed  as  regarded  my  father  all 
of  that  gentleness  which  lay  beneath  the  exterior 
roughness  of  her  masculine  natm*e.  I  observed  that 
she  looked  after  his  house,  paying  him  frequent 
visits,  and  in  all  ways  was  sohcitous  that  he  should 
be  made  comfortable. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      425 

Near  about  the  1st  of  March  —  I  am  not  quite 
sure  of  the  date  —  I  was  asked  iu  the  absence  of 
!Major  Chirkson,  chief  of  the  staff,  to  take  his  duties 
for  a  few  days.  I  then  saw  ho\v  needlessly  the  geuerid 
was  creating  enmities.  His  worst  foe,  Mr.  Joseph 
Reed,  had  become  in  December  presidentof  the  Coun- 
cil of  State,  and  we  —  I  sav  we  —  were  thenceforward 
forever  at  outs  with  the  body  over  which  he  presided. 
When  at  last,  thoroughly  disgusted,  General  Arnold 
was  about  to  resigu  from  the  army,  those  unpleasant 
charges  were  made  against  him  wliich  came  to  little 
or  nothing,  but  which  embittered  a  life  already 
harassed  by  disappointed  ambition  and  want  of 
means,  and  now  also  by  the  need  to  show  a  fair  face  to 
Mr.  Shippen,  whose  daughter's  liand  he  had  asked. 

General  Arnold's  indifference  as  to  privacy  in  his 
affairs  amazed  me,  and  I  saw  enough  to  make  me 
both  wonder  and  grieve.  The  friend  of  Schuyler  and 
of  Warren,  the  soldier  whom  Washington  at  one  time 
absolutelv  trusted,  attached  me  to  him  bv  his  kind- 
ness  and  hiN-ish  generosity,  and  as  an  officer  he  had 
my  unbounded  admiration.  Surely  his  place  was  in 
the  field,  and  not  at  the  dinner  tables  of  Tories, 
whose  society,  as  I  have  said,  he  much  affected.  It 
was  a  sign  of  weakness  that  he  overesteemed  the 
homage  of  a  merely  gay  and  fashionable  set,  and 
took  with  avidity  the  dangerous  flattery  of  the  Tory 
dames. 

lie  was  withal  a  somewhat  coarse  man,  with  a  vast 
amount  of  vanity.  It  was  u  blow  to  his  self-estimate 
wlien  he  was  unjustly  parsed  over  in  the  promotions 


426      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

to  major-general.  He  felt  it  deeply,  and  was  at  no 
pains  to  hide  his  disgust.  I  did  not  wonder  that  the 
Shippens  did  all  they  could  to  break  off  this  strange 
love-affair.  They  failed ;  for  when  a  delicate-minded, 
sensitive,  well-bred  woman  falls  in  love  with  a 
strong,  coarse,  passionate  man,  there  is  no  more  to 
be  said  except,  "  Take  her." 


XXIV 


S  the  spring:  came  on  my  father's  condi- 
tion seemed  to  me  to  grow  worse.  At 
times  he  had  great  gusts  of  passion  or  of 
tears,  quit€  unlike  himself ;  for  a  day  he 
would  think  I  was  my  cousin,  and  be 
more  affectionate  than  I  had  ever  seen  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  tidked  in  a  confused  way  of  our  estate  in 
Wales,  and  so,  what  with  this  and  my  annoyance 
over  the  irregularities  at  our  headquarters,  I  had 
enough  to  trouble  me. 

The  oflice  duties  were,  as  I  have  said,  not  much  to 
my  taste,  but  I  learned  a  good  deal  which  was  of 
future  use  to  me.  It  was  a  dull  life,  and  but  once 
did  I  come  upon  anything  worth  narrating.  This,  in 
fact,  seemed  to  me  at  tlie  time  of  less  moment  than 
it  grew  to  be  thereafter. 

Neither  I  nor  Major  Clarkson,  his  chief  of  staff, 
had  all  of  the  gcueral's  coulideuce.  Men  came  and 
went  now  and  then  with  letters,  or  Avhat  not,  of 
which  naturally  I  learned  nothing.  One— a  lean, 
small  man,  ill  disguised  as  a  Quaker— I  .saw  twice. 
The  last  time  he  found  the  general  absent.  I  offered 
to  take  charge  of  a  letter  he  said  he  had,  but  he  de- 
chned,  sajnng  he  would  return,  and  on  this  put  it 

4^7 


428      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

back  in  his  pocket,  or  tried  to ;  for  he  let  it  fall,  and 
in  quick  haste  secured  it,  although  not  before  I 
thought  I  had  recognised  Arthur  Wjoine's  peculiar 
handwriting.  This  astounded  me,  as  you  may  ima- 
gine. But  how  could  I  dream  of  what  it  meant  ?  I 
concluded  at  last  that  I  must  have  been  mistaken, 
and  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  ask  the  general.  It 
was  none  of  my  business,  after  all. 

The  fellow— I  had  always  supposed  him  one  of  our 
spies— came  again  in  an  hour,  and  saw  the  general. 
I  heard  the  man  say,  "  From  Mr.  Anderson,  sir,"  and 
then  the  door  was  closed,  and  the  matter  passed  from 
my  mind  for  many  a  day. 

Jack  very  soon  after  left  us,  and  Darthea  became 
more  and  more  reserved,  and  unlike  her  merry, 
changeful  self. 

On  March  25,  79,  I  came  in  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  sat  down  to  read.  My  father,  seated  at  the  table, 
was  tying  up  or  untying  bundles  of  old  papers. 
Looking  up,  he  said  abruptly,  *'  Your  cousin  has  been 
here  to-day."  It  was  said  so  naturally  as  for  a  mo- 
ment to  surprise  me.  I  made  no  reply.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  looked  up  again. 

"Arthur,  Arthur—" 

I  turned  from  a  book  on  tactics  issued  by  Baron 
Steuben.     "  I  am  not  Arthur,  father." 

He  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  went  on  to  say  that 
I  ought  to  have  come  long  ago.  And  what  would  I 
do  with  it  ? 

I  asked  what  he  meant  by  it,  and  if  I  could  help 
him  with  his  papers. 


HiighWVnne:  Free  Quiiker      429 

No,  no ;  he  needed  no  help.  Did  I  ever  hear  from 
Wyucote,  and  how  wa^  AMlliam  ?  I  made  sure  he 
hiid  onee  again  taken  me  for  my  cousin.  I  found  it 
was  vain  to  insist  upon  my  being:  his  son.  For  a 
moment  he  would  seem  puzzled,  and  would  then  call 
me  Arthur.  At  last,  when  he  became  vexed,  and  said 
auj;:rily  that  I  was  behaving  worse  than  Hugh,  I  re- 
called Dr.  Ru.^ih's  adN^ice,  and  humouring  Ids  delusion, 
said,  *'  Uncle,  let  me  help  you."  Meanwhile  he  was 
fuml)ling  nervously  at  the  papers,  tying  and  untying 
the  s:une  bundle,  which  seemed  to  be  chieflv  old  bills 
and  invoices. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  went  on.  "  Take  it,  and  have  a 
care  that  thou  hast  it  duly  considered  by  James  Wil- 
son, or  another  as  good.     Then  we  will  see." 

"  Wliat  is  it,  uncle  ?  "  I  returned. 

He  said  it  was  the  reconveyance  of  Wyncote  to  my 
grandfather;  and  with  entirely  clear  language,  and 
no  faidt  of  thouglit  tliat  I  could  observe,  he  stated 
that  at  need  he  would  execute  a  proper  title  to  God- 
frey, the  present  man. 

I  was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment  and  pity. 
Here  was  a  man  acting  within  a  W(»rld  of  delusion  as 
to  who  I  was,  and  with  as  much  competence  as  ever 
in  his  best  davs,  I  did  not  know  what  to  sav,  nor 
even  what  to  do.  At  last  I  rore,  and  put  the  old 
yellow  parchment  in  my  coat  pocket,  saying  I  was 
greatly  ol>liged  by  his  kindness. 

Then,  his  ]tusin<'ss  liabits  acting  as  was  their  wont, 
he  said,  '  But  it  will  be  proper  for  thee  to  give  me  a 
receipt" 


430      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  said  it  was  not  needed,  but  lie  insisted ;  and  at 
this  I  was  puzzled.  I  did  not  want  the  deed,  still  less 
did  I  want  it  to  pass  into  Arthur's  hands.  I  said, 
"Very  good,  sir,"  and  sitting  down  again,  wrote  a 
receipt,  and,  calmly  signing  my  own  name,  gave  it 
to  him.  He  did  not  look  at  it,  but  folded  and  in- 
dorsed it,  and  threw  it  into  the  little  red  leather 
trunk  on  the  table. 

I  went  away  to  my  aunt's  without  more  delay,  a 
much-astounded  man.  The  good  lady  was  no  less 
astonished.  We  read  the  deed  over  with  care,  but 
its  legal  turns  and  its  great  length  puzzled  us  both, 
and  at  last  my  aunt  said : 

"Let  me  keep  it,  Hugh.  It  is  a  queer  tangle. 
Just  now  we  can  do  nothing,  and  later  we  shall  see. 
There  wiU  be  needed  some  wiser  legal  head  than 
mine  or  yours,  and  what  wiU  come  of  it  who  can 
say  ?  At  all  events,  Mr,  Arthur  has  it  not,  and  in 
your  fathei-'s  condition  he  himself  will  hardly  be  able 
to  make  a  competent  conveyance.  Indeed,  I  think  he 
will  forget  the  whole  business,  I  presume  Master 
"Wynne  is  not  likely  to  return  in  a  hurry." 

In  the  beginning  of  April  General  Arnold  married 
our  beautiful  Margaret  Shippen,  and  took  her  to  the 
new  home.  Mount  Pleasant,  above  the  shaded  waters 
of  the  quiet  SchuylkiU.  Tea-parties  and  punch- 
drinking  followed,  as  was  the  custom. 

Mr.  Arnold,  as  my  aunt  called  him,  after  a  fashion 
learned  in  London,  and  also  common  in  the  colonies, 
gave  his  bride  Mount  Pleasant  as  a  dowry,  and  none 
knew— not  even  the  fair  Margaret— that  it  was  hope- 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      431 

lessly  niortgagred.  Hither  came  gnests  in  scores  for 
a  week  after  the  marriage  to  drink  tea  with  madam, 
the  men  taking  puiu-h  upstairs  with  the  groom,  wliile 
the  women  waited  below,  and  had  cakes  and  gossij), 
in  whieh  this  winter  wa^s  i-ieh  enough  to  satisfy  tliose 
of  all  j)arties. 

It  was  a  year  of  defeat,  and  again  the  weaker  folk, 
like  Joseph  Warder  and  some  much  better  knoANTi,— I 
mention  no  names,— were  talking  of  tenns,  or,  by 
their  fij*esides  with  a  jug  of  Hollands,  were  critieising 
our  leader,  and  asking  why  he  did  not  move.  Mean- 
while the  army  was  as  ill  off  as  ever  it  had  Ijeen  since 
the  camping  at  Vjdley  Forge,  while  the  air  here  in 
the  city  was  full  of  vagixe  rumours  of  defection  and 
what  not.  I  was  of  necessity  caught  in  the  vortex  of 
gaiety  which  my  cldef  loved  and  did  much  to  keep 
up.  He  liked  to  see  his  aides  at  his  table,  and  used 
them  as  a  pai-t  of  the  excessive  state  we  thought  at 
this  time  most  unseendy. 

I  remember  well  an  afternoon  in  April  of  this 
year,  when,  the  spring  being  early,  all  manner  of 
green  things  were  peeping  forth,  while  I  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  hall  at  Mount  Pleasant,  that  I  might 
receive  those  who  called  and  excuse  the  absence  of 
the  host.  I  wandered  out,  for  as  yet  none  came  to 
call.  The  air  was  soft  like  summer,  and,  sweeter 
than  birds  overhead  or  the  fragrant  arbutus  on  the 
upland  slopes,  came  Darthca  in  virgin  white,  and  a 
great  hat  tied  under  her  chin  with  long  breadths  of 
blue  ribbon.  My  aunt  walked  with  her  from  licr 
coach,  and  close  after  them  came  a  laughing  throng 


432      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

of  men  and  women,  for  the  most  part  of  the  gover- 
nor's set.  There  was  bad  news  from  the  South,  which 
was  by  no  means  unwelcome  to  these  people,  if  I 
might  judge  from  their  comments.  My  aunt  walked 
with  them  in  silent  wrath,  and  after  I  had  met  them 
at  the  door,  turned  aside  with  me  and  bade  me  go 
with  her  on  the  lawn,  where  the  grass  was  already 
green. 

"  I  have  held  my  tongue,"  she  said.  "  These  people 
have  neither  manners  nor  hearts.  I  told  Mr.  Shippen 
as  much.  And  where  does  your  general  get  all  bis 
money  ?  It  is  vulgar,  this  waste.  Look ! "  she  said ; 
"  look  there !  It  is  well  to  feed  the  poor  after  a 
wedding;  I  like  the  old  custom;  but  this  is  mere 
ostentation."  It  was  true;  there  was  a  crowd  of 
the  neighbouring  farm  people  about  the  detached 
kitchen,  eager  for  the  food  and  rum  which  I  saw 
given  daily  in  absurd  profusion.  My  Aunt  Gainor 
shook  her  head. 

"  It  will  turn  out  badly,  Hugh.  This  comes  of  a 
woman  marrying  beneath  her.  The  man  may  be 
a  good  soldier, — oh,  no  doubt  he  is, — but  he  is  not  a 
gentleman.  You  must  get  away,  Hugh."  Indeed, 
I  much  desired  to  do  so,  but  until  now  had  been  de- 
tained, despite  repeated  applications  to  my  chief. 

My  aunt  said  no  more,  but  went  into  the  house, 
leaving  me  to  await  the  coming  of  the  many  guests, 
men  and  women,  gentlemen  of  the  Congress,  with 
officers  in  uniform,  who  flocked  to  this  too  hospitable 
mansion.  I  had  just  heard  from  Jack,  and  the  con- 
trast shown  by  his  account  of  the  want  of  arms, 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      433 

clothing:,  ami  food  seemed  to  me  most  sad  when  I  re- 
fleeted  upon  the  extravaganee  and  useless  excess  I 
had  seen  throughout  the  winter  now  at  an  end.  I 
did  not  wonder  at  niv  aunt  s  aiiu:er.  Her  fears  were 
but  the  vague  antit;ipations  of  a  wL>e  old  wonuin 
who  had  seen  the  world  and  used  good  eyes  and  a 
sagacious  brain.  How  httle  did  she  or  I  dream  of 
the  tragedy  of  dishonour  into  which  the  mad  waste, 
the  growing  debts,  the  bitterness  of  an  insulted  and 
ambitious  spirit,  were  to  lead  the  host  of  tliis  gay 
house! 

As  I  turned  in  my  walk  I  saw  the  general  dis- 
mount, and  went  to  meet  him.  He  said :  "  I  shall 
want  you  at  nine  to-night  at  my  quarters  in  town— 
an  errand  of  moment  into  the  Jerseys.  You  must 
leave  early  to-morrow.     Are  you  well  horsed?" 

I  said  yes,  and  was,  in  fact,  glad  of  any  more  ac- 
tive life.  Before  nine  that  night  I  went  to  head- 
quarters, and  found  a  number  of  invitations  to  dine 
or  sup.  It  may  amuse  those  for  whom  I  ^mte  to 
know  that  nearly  all  were  yrrit  on  the  white  backs 
of  j»laying-eards ;  but  one  from  Madam  Arnold  was 
printed.  I  .^at  down,  facing  the  open  doorway  into 
the  general's  room,  and  began  to  wTite  refusals,  not 
knowing  how  long  I  might  be  absent. 

Presentlj'  looking  up,  I  saw  the  general  at  his 
desk.  I  had  not  heard  him  enter.  Two  candles  were 
in  front  of  liiin.  He  was  sitting  witli  his  cheeks  rest- 
ing on  his  hands  and  his  oll)ows  on  the  desk,  facing 
me,  and  so  deep  in  f  liought  that  I  did  not  think  fit  to 
interrupt  him.     His  large,  ruddy  features  now  were 

2S 


434      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

pale  and  sombre,  and  twice  I  saw  him  use  his  kerchief 
to  mop  his  brow  as  if  it  were  moist  from  overlieating. 

At  last  he  called  me,  and  I  went  in.  His  forehead 
and  the  powdered  hair  about  it  were  in  fact  wet,  like 
those  of  a  man  who  is  coming  out  of  an  ague.  In- 
deed, he  looked  so  ill  that  I  ventured  to  ask  after  his 
health.  He  rephed  that  he  was  weU.  That  infamous 
court-mai'tial  business  annoyed  him,  and  as  to  Mr. 
Reed,  if  there  were  any  fight  in  the  man,  he  would 
have  him  out  and  get  done  with  him— which  seemed 
imprudent  talk,  to  say  no  more. 

"  Captain  Wynne,"  he  went  on,  "  early  to-morrow 
you  will  ride  tlirough  Bristol  to  the  ferry  below 
Trenton.  Cross  and  proceed  with  aU  haste  to  South 
Amboy,  At  the  Lamb  Tavern  you  will  meet  an 
officer  from  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  Deliver  to  him  this 
despatch  in  regard  to  exchange  of  prisoners.  He 
may  or  may  not  have  a  letter  for  you  to  bring  back. 
In  this  package  are  passes  from  me,  and  one  from 
Sir  Henry  Clinton,  in  case  you  meet  with  any  Tory 
parties." 

"I  shall  be  sure  to  meet  them  in  west  Jersey. 
Pardon  me,  sir,  but  would  it  not  be  easier  to  pass 
through  our  own  lines  in  the  middle  Jerseys  ? " 

"  You  have  your  orders,  Mr.  "Wynne,"  he  replied 
severely. 

I  bowed. 

Then  he  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  I  stood  waiting 
his  wiU.  "  The  despatch,"  he  said,  "  is  open  in  case 
it  becomes  needful  to  show  it.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  read  it." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      4:55 

Tliis  sounded  uunsual,  but  I  opened  it,  and  read 
to  the  etfeet  that  the  exchanges  woukl  go  on  if  Sir 
Henry  did  not  see  fit  to  tdter  his  fornier  projtosal,  but 
that  some  time  might  ehii)se  before  the  lists  on  our 
side  were  made  out.  '•  Tlie  officer  charged  with  this 
letter  will  be  unable  to  give  any  further  information, 
as  he  has  no  ])owei'S  to  act  for  me. 

'•1  have  tlie  honour  tt)  be 

''  Your  obedient,  humble  servant, 
*'  Benedict  Arnold, 
"  Major-General  in  ccmDHand  of 
PhUaddphia  (oul  the  ire^fern  Jerseys." 

I  looked  up.     '-Is  tliat  all?" 

"  Not  quite.  If  it  cliance  that  no  officer  appears  to 
meet  you  at  Amboy,  you  will  return  at  once." 

Very  glad  of  relief  from  the  routine  of  rather  dis- 
tasteful duties,  I  rode  away  at  dawn  the  next  day  up 
the  Bristol  road.  I  was  stopped,  as  I  supposed  I 
should  be,  by  a  small  band  of  Torj'  partisans,  but 
after  exliiliiting  my  British  pass  T  was  permitted  to 
proceed.  Between  Trenton  and  Am])ov  I  met  a  party 
of  our  own  horse,  and  had  some  trouble  until  I 
allowed  their  h'ader,  a  stuj)id  lout,  to  read  my  open 
despatch,  wlien  he  seemed  satisfied,  and  sent  on  two 
trooiKTs  with  me,  whom  I  h-ft  near  Amboy. 

At  the  inn  I  waited  a  day,  when  a  ketch  appeared, 
and  an  officer,  stepping  a.»<hore,  came  up  from  the 
beach  to  meet  me.  I  saw,  as  he  drew  near,  that  it 
was  Arthur  WNTine. 

*'  Glad  to  see  you,"  lie  cried,  iii  a  tpiite  hearty  way. 


436      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  Andre  was  to  have 
come,  but  he  is  ill.  He  desires  his  regards  and  par- 
ticular compliments." 

Was  I  always  to  meet  this  man  when  I  was  so 
hampered  that  to  have  my  will  of  him  was  out  of  the 
question?  I  said  the  meeting  could  not  be  unex- 
pected, or  how  could  Andi*e  have  known  ?  At  this  I 
saw  him  look  a  bit  queer,  and  I  went  on  to  add  that 
the  pleasure  was  all  on  his  side. 

'■'■  I  am  sorry,"  he  returned. 

Not  caring  to  hear  further,  I  said  abruptly:  "Let 
us  proceed  to  business.  Here  is  a  despatch  for  Sir 
Henry.     Have  you  any  letter  for  me  ?  " 

"  None,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  I  am  free  to  go." 

"Pardon  me;  not  yet,"  he  said.  "I  beg  that  for 
once  you  wiU.  hear  what  I  in  person  have  to  say.  I 
have  been  greatly  misrepresented." 

"  Indeed  ? " 

"  Yes.  Pray  be  patient.  I  meant  to  write  to  you, 
but  that  has  been  difficult,  as  you  know." 

"  Of  course.     And  what  have  you  to  say,  sir  ? " 

"You  have  misunderstood  me.  There  have  been 
reasons  of  difference  between  us  which,  I  am  happy 
to  say,  are  at  an  end  for  me."  He  meant  as  to 
Darthea.  "  I  made  a  mistake  in  the  prison  such  as 
any  man  might  have  made.  I  have  been  sorry  ever 
since.  I  made  an  effort  to  arrest  you  in  the  garden ; 
I  did  my  duty,  and  was  glad  you  escaped.  If  you 
are  not  satisfied,  a  time  may  come  when  I  can  put  my- 
self at  your  disposal.     Our  present  service  and  our 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      437 

relationship  make  me  hope  that  you  may  never 
desiiv  it" 

He  was  qiiict,  cool,  and  perfectly  master  of  himself. 
It  did  not  suit  him  to  luive  a  break  with  uie,  and  I 
well  knew  why.  It  would  end  all  cluuice  of  his  future 
intercourse  with  my  father,  and  why  he  did  not  ^^^sh 
this  to  happen  I  now  knew  pi-etty  well. 

I  said,  "  Mr.  Wynne,  tlie  arrest  is  a  small  matter. 
Thanks  to  Miss  Peniston  and  to  Major  Audr^,  it 
(;mne  to  nothing."  At  my  use  of  Darthea's  name  I 
saw  him  frown,  and  I  went  on  : 

"Yon  have  lied  about  the  prison,  sir.  If  Mr. 
Delaney,  who  heard  you  ask  my  name,  were  here,  I 
should  long  ago  have  exposed  you  and  your  conduct 
to  aU  who  cared  to  hear.  You  were  shrewd  enough 
to  pro^'ide  against  the  possibility  of  my  telling  my 
own  stor}'.  I  can  only  hope,  at  no  distant  day,  to 
have  the  means  of  unmasking  a  man  who- -why,  I 
know  not— has  made  himself  mv  enemv.  Then,  sir, 
and  always  I  .'^hall  hope  to  ask  of  you  another  form 
of  satisfaction." 

"  Cousin  Ilugh,"  he  returned,  "  I  shall  be  able  to 
prove  to  you  and  to  Mr.  Delaney,  when  he  can  be 
found,  that  you  are  both  mistaken.  I  trust  that  you 
will  not  for  so  slight  a  reason  see  fit  to  disturb  my 
pleasant  relations  with  your  father."  They  were,  I 
thought,  profitable  as  well  as  pleasant. 

"  I  shall  use  my  judgment,"  said  I. 

''I  am  sorr}'.  I  hoped  for  a  more  agreeable  end- 
ing to  our  talk.  Good-evening."  And  ho  walked 
away. 


43^      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

Before  nightfall  of  the  day  after  I  was  again  at 
home,  and  had  made  my  report,  little  dreaming  of  the 
innocent  part  I  had  played  in  a  sorrowful  drama,  nor 
how  great  was  the  risk  I  had  run.  Concerning  this 
I  was  not  made  clear  for  many  a  day.  I  had  carried 
a  letter  which  was  not  what  it  seemed  to  be,  but  was 
reaUy  a  means  of  satisfying  Clinton  that  Arnold  in- 
tended to  betray  us,  and  had  accepted  his  terms.  Had 
this  been  known  when  the  great  treason  came,  I 
should  no  doubt  have  got  into  serious  difficulties.  The 
unreasoning  storm  of  anger  which  followed  General 
Ai'nold's  treachery  spared  no  one  who  was  in  any 
way  involved,  and  no  appearance  of  innocence  would 
have  saved  even  so  loyal  and  blameless  a  soldier  as 
I  from  certain  disgrace. 

I  have  at  times  wondered  that  a  man  to  outward 
seeming  so  kindly  and  so  plainly  attached  to  me  as 
Arnold  apparently  was  should  have  used  me  for  such 
an  en-and ;  but  he  who  could  value  lightly  the  respect 
and  friendship  of  Washington  and  Schuyler  may 
have  had  few  scruples  as  to  the  perUs  to  which  he 
might  expose  a  simple  officer  like  myself.  Who  bore 
his  later  missives  no  one  knows.  I  have  never 
thought,  as  some  do,  that  any  Eve  was  active  in  the 
temptation  which  led  to  the  dark  treachery  of  the 
saddest  hour  of  that  weary  war.  Arnold's  first 
downward  step  was  taken  months  before  he  knew 
Margaret  Shippen,  as  Sir  Henry  Clinton's  papers 
have  now  most  clearly  shown. 

Of  my  personal  regret  as  to  Arnold's  disgrace  I 
have  said  little  in  these  pages,  and  shall  say  but  little 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      439 

more.  His  generosity  may  have  been  but  a  part  of 
his  lavishness  in  all  directions ;  but  this  was  he  who 
for  ve;irs  cared  liberally  for  the  destitute  children  of 
his  friend  Wan-en  after  liis  death  at  Bunker  Hill ; 
and  this  was  he  who,  as  Schuyler  has  told  me,  saved 
the  life  of  the  soldier  who  had  just  shot  him  on  the 
field  at  Saratoga.  Surely  tlie  good  and  the  bad  ai*e 
wonderfully  mingled  in  our  humanity ! 

Early  in  June  of  79,  and  after  repeated  requests 
on  my  ptu-t  to  rejoin  my  regiment,  I  received  orders 
to  report  to  the  colonel  in  command  of  the  Third 
Pennsylvania  foot,  then  lying  at  Ramapo,  New 
York.  I  took  leave  of  my  people,  and,  alas!  of 
Darthea,  and  set  out  with  a  number  of  recruits.  I 
was  glad  indeed  to  be  away.  Darthea  was  clearly 
unhappy,  and  no  longer  the  gay  enchantress  of  un- 
numbered moods  ;  neither  did  my  home  life  offer  me 
comfort  or  affection. 

If,  however,  I  looked  for  acti\'ity  in  the  army,  I 
was  greatly  mistaken.  Sir  Henrj'  held  New  York  ; 
our  own  poojdo  had  the  Jerseys.  A  great  chain  of 
forts  limited  the  movements  of  the  British  on  the 
Hudson.  Our  general  seemed  to  me  to  have  a 
paralysing  influence  on  whatever  British  commander 
wa-s  matched  against  him.  As  it  had  })een  with  Gage 
in  Boston  and  with  Howe  in  Philadelphia,  so  was  it 
now  with  Clinton  in  New  York.  From  Danbuiy  in 
Connecticut  to  Elizal)eth  in  New  Jersey,  a  thin  line 
wat^;lied  the  pent-up  enemy,  who  to  seaward  was 
guarded  by  a  great  fleet.  N<ti-th  of  the  Potomac  he 
held  New  York  alone,  but  on  the  frontier  a  savage 


440      Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker 

contest  raged,  and  in  the  South  the  war  everywhere 
went  against  us. 

Occasional  skirmishes,  incessant  drill,  and  a  life 
of  expedients  to  shelter,  clothe,  and  feed  my  men, 
filled  the  tedious  -wdnter  of  '79  and  '80,  but  affords  me 
nothing  of  interest  to  add  to  tlie  stoiy  of  my  life.  In 
August  General  Arnold  passed  through  our  forces  to 
take  command  of  the  forts  at  West  Point,  having  de- 
clined a  command  in  the  field  on  account,  as  he  said, 
of  continued  suffering  from  his  wounded  leg.  I  fear 
it  was  a  mere  pretence. 

We  were  lying  about  Middlebrook,  New  Jersey, 
when,  a  few  days  later,  Colonel  Alexander  Hamilton 
came  to  my  quarters,  evidently  much  amused.  He 
said  the  videttes  had  captured  a  batch  of  letters, 
mostly  of  no  moment,  but  some  too  mischievous  to 
be  let  to  pass. 

''Here,"  he  said,  "is  one  which  concerns  you, 
Wynne.  You  need  have  no  scruple  as  to  the  read- 
ing of  it.  It  has  much  entertained  the  mess  of  the 
headquarters  guard." 

He  sat  down  with  Jack  and  a  pipe  to  keep  off  the 
Tory  mosquitos,  while  I  fell  to  reading  the  letter. 
The  same  buzzing  Tories  were  busy  about  me  also 
with  bugle  and  beak,  but  when,  as  I  glanced  at  the 
letter,  I  caught  Darthea's  name  on  the  second  page, 
I  forgot  them  and  hesitated.  "StiU,"  thought  I, 
"others  have  read  it,  and  it  may  be  well  that  I 
should  do  so."  It  was  no  longer  private.  I  went  on 
to  learn  what  it  said.  It  was  from  Miss  Franks  in 
New  York  to  some  young  woman  of  her  set  in  my 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      441 

own  city,  but  to  whom  was  not  clear,  as  an  outer 
cover  seemed  to  have  been  lost  or  cast  away. 

"  My  dear  Pussy,"  it  begau :  "  I  hope  you  will 
get  this  despite  the  rebels,  else  you  will  lose  much 
that  is  usefiU  in  the  warfai  e  ^vith  our  dear  enemy, 
the  unfair  sex."  After  this  was  an  amusing  record 
of  the  latest  modes  and  much  about  jjjowns,  j)in- 
cushion  hoops,  and  face-patchos.  ''  Also  the  gentle- 
men of  New  York  wear  two  watches,  which  with  you 
is  not  considered  genteel,  and  the  admiral  has  intro- 
duced the  fashion  of  dining  by  c^mdle-Ught  at  four. 
It  is  very  becoming,  I  do  assure  you. 

"  How  is  the  pretty  boy-captain  ?  Does  he  still 
blush  T "  This  was  clearlv  Jack,  but  who  was  Pussv  ? 
"And  Mr.  Wvune— not  Darthea's  Mr.  Wynne,  but 
the  perverted  Quaker  -snth  the  blue  eyes  ? "  It  was 
plain  who  this  was. 

"  Darthea's  captain— but  I  must  not  tell  tales  out 
of  school;— indeed  he  needs  to  be  dealt  with.  Tell 
the  ^\ntch  if  she  ivill  stay  among  the  R.  R.'s— which 
is  what  we  call  them— Ragged  Rebels  it  is— she 
must  look  to  suffer.  I  am  not  as  sure  she  does.  Oh, 
these  men !     Between  us,  there  is  a  certain  Olivia 

L who  is  great  friends  with  Mr.  Wynne.     8he 

hath  a  winning  air  of  artless  youth.  I  am  j)leased  t« 
hear  from  mij  colonel,  whom  you  must  soon  know, 
that  we  shall  soon  be  with  you  in  our  dear  Philadel- 
phia, an<l  Mr.  (i.  W.  hoeing  tobacco,  or  worse,  poor 
man.  Dear  me  !  I  have  quite  lost  my  way,  and  must 
look  back. 

•'  I  can  fancy  Darthea  weeping.     She  hath  small 


442      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

need  It  is  my  way  to  love  to  tease  whom  I  love,  and 
the  more  I  do  love  the  more  I  do  love  to  tease.  I  can- 
not believe  any  would  be  false  to  Darthea,  nor 
is  he,  I  am  sure ;  but  thou  dost  know  (as  Mistress 
"Wynne's  Captain  Blushes  would  word  it.  *■  Thou ' 
and  '  thee '  are  sweet.  I  would  I  had  a  Quaker  lover) 
—  thou  dost  know  that  the  she  who  is  here  is  always 
more  dangerous  than  the  she  who  is  there.  That  is 
Darthea,  dear. 

"  I  forgot  to  say  stays  is  wore  looser,  which  is  a 
mercy  5  also  the  garters  must  be  one  red  and  one 
blue." 

When,  amused,  I  read  a  bit  to  Jack,  he  declared 
we  ought  to  read  no  more,  and  if  he  had  been  of  the 
mess  which  did  read  it,  he  would  have  had  reason  out 
of  some  one.  Indeed,  he  was  angry-red,  and  begin- 
ning to  twitch  in  his  queer  way,  so  that  I  feared  he 
would  bring  about  a  quarrel  with  Mr.  Hamilton, 
who  knew  neither  woman  and  was  still  shaking  with 
laughter. 

I  liked  it  no  better  than  Jack  did,  but  he  had  said 
enough,  and  I  shook  my  head  at  Hamilton  as  I  lay 
on  the  floor  of  the  hut  behind  Jack.  Mr.  Hamilton, 
who  was  a  very  model  of  good  breeding,  and  despite 
his  vivacity  never  forgot  what  was  due  to  others,  said 
at  once  :  "  I  ask  pardon,  Mr.  "Warder.  I  did  not  know 
either  of  the  ladies  was  known  to  you.  Had  I  been 
aware,  no  one  should  have  read  the  letter." 

Then  Jack  said  he  had  been  hasty,  and  hoped  Mr. 
Hamilton  would  excuse  him. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  excuse,  Mr.  Warder  j  but  I 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      443 

must  tell  you  the  rest,  for  it  much  doliofhted  his  Ex- 
cellency. It  is  but  a  madcap  accouut  of  how  Miss 
Frauks  tied  oiu*  own  colours  all  over  jNIt.  Andi'6's 
black  poodle,  and  let  him  loose  at  a  ball  the  De 
Laucevs  had  in  honour  of  Sii*  Henrv  Clinton.  Our 
Excellency  says  it  is  a  pity  we  had  not  captm-ed  the 
fail*  lATiter.  That  is  as  near  to  a  jest  as  he  ever 
comes,  but  he  can  enjoy  our  staff  nonsense  for  all 
his  gravity.  I  leave  you  the  letter;  you  may  like 
some  day  to  deUver  it.  I  hope  we  shall  move  soon. 
This  camp  life  is  devilish  dull.  And  here  is  the 
Bntish  mouse  in  a  hole  and  won't  come  out,  and  our 
serious  old  cat  a- watching.  Lord,  the  patience  of  the 
man  !  Come  over  and  see  us  soon,  Mr.  Warder,  and 
you  too,  Wynne." 

"I  wish  Miss  Darthea  had  the  letter.  But  she 
never  can  have  it  now,"  said  I. 

"Hardly,"  says  Jack,  blushing  sweetly.  I  think 
the  garters  were  on  his  mind. 

Early  in  August  Jjick's  command  was  sent  to  join 
the  army  on  the  Hudson,  and,  as  I  learned  later,  was 
camped  vrith  tli»*  bulk  of  our  forces  about  the  former 
seat  of  the  Tappan  Indians,  among  the  old  Dutch 
farms.  These  clianges  of  tro()j)s  from  place  to  place 
were  most  peq)lexing  to  us,  who  did  not  comprehend 
the  game,  and  were  now  at  Hartford,  and  a  month 
later  at  p]lizabeth  in  the  Jerseys.  ]\Iy  own  regiment 
had  seen  httle  service  beyond  tlie  Jersey  line,  and  was 
willing  enough  to  get  out  of  reach  of  those  summer 
pests,  the  mosquitos.     We  were  soon  gratified. 


XXV 


N  the  20t}i  of  September  I  was  desired  by 
my  colonel  to  conduct  two  companies 
from  Newark,  where  we  lay,  through  the 
gap  at  Ramapo,  New  York,  to  the  main 
army,  which  at  this  date  was  camped,  as 
I  have  said,  about  Tappan.  Being  stout  and  well,  I 
was  glad  to  move,  and  glad  of  a  chance  to  see  the 
great  river  Hudson.  We  were  assigned  camp-ground 
back  from  the  river,  on  a  hill  slope,  in  a  long-settled 
country,  where  since  early  in  the  seventeenth  century 
the  Dutch  had  possessed  the  land.  Having  no  tents, 
on  arriving  we  set  to  work  at  the  old  business  of  hut- 
building,  so  that  it  was  not  until  the  26th  of  Septem- 
ber that  I  had  an  idle  hour  in  which  to  look  up  Jack, 
who  lay  somewhere  between  Tappan  and  the  river. 
It  was,  as  usual,  a  joyous  meeting,  and  we  never 
did  less  lack  for  talk.  Jack  told  me  that  he  was 
ordered  on  an  unpleasant  bit  of  business,  and  asked 
if  I  could  not  get  leave  to  go  with  him.  Orders  were 
come  from  West  Point  to  seize  and  destroy  all 
periaguas,  canoes,  and  boats  in  the  possession  of  the 
few  and  often  doubtfully  loyal  people  between  us 
and  King's  Ferry.     He  had  for  this  duty  two  sail- 

444 


Hugh  W^vnne  :  Free  Quaker      445 

rigged  dories  vrith  slide-keels,  and  would  take  two 
soldiers  in  each. 

Upon  his  representing  niy  skill  as  a  sailor,  and  the 
need  for  two  oflficers,  I  was  allowed  to  turn  over  my 
command  to  the  junior  oaptiiiu  and  to  join  Jack. 

We  set  off  on  the  27th  of  September  -vnth  prov- 
ender and  two  small  tents,  and  went  away  up  the 
river  with  a  fine  wind.  The  water  was  a  dull  gi'ay, 
and  the  heavens  clouded.  The  far  shore  of  Dobb's 
Fern.'  and  TaiTytown  was  already  gaily  tinted  with 
the  hues  of  the  autumn,  and  to  south  the  bleak  gray 
lines  of  the  Palisades  below  Sneedon's  Landing  lay 
sombre  and  stern  under  a  sunless  sky.  One  of  my 
men  was  a  good  sailor,  and  I  wjis  thus  enabled  to 
spend  most  of  the  day  in  Jack's  boat. 

I  mention  all  these  details  because  of  a  curious 
coincidence.  I  said  to  Jack— I  was  steering— that  I 
had  had  since  dawn  a  feeling  that  some  calamity 
was  about  to  happen.  Now  this  was,  as  I  recall  it, 
a  notion  quite  new  to  me,  and  far  more  like  Jack 
himself.  He  laughed  and  said  it  was  the  east  wind. 
Tlien  aft<?r  a  pause  he  added  :  "  I  was  trying  to  recall 
something  I  once  heard,  and  now  I  have  it.  This 
waiting  for  an  i<lea  is  like  fishing  in  the  deo[)  waters 
of  the  mind :  sometimes  one  gets  only  a  nibble,  and 
ooraetimes  a  bite ;  but  I  have  my  fish.  It  was  Dr. 
Rush  who  told  me  that  the  liver  was  the  mother  of 
gho.sts  and  presentiments.  When  I  told  him  I  was 
afflicted  with  these  latter,  he  put  on  his  glasses, 
looked  at  mc,  and  said  I  was  of  a  presentimcntal 
temperament" 


44^      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  And  he  was  right,"  said  I,  laughing.  Then  Jack 
declared  the  weather  was  sorry  enough  to  account 
for  my  notion.  I  made  answer,  as  I  remember,  that 
I  was  not  subject  to  the  rule  of  the  weather-cock, 
like  some  fellows  I  knew,  nor  to  thinking  I  was 
going  to  be  shot.  This  shut  up  Jack  for  a  while,  and 
we  got  off  on  to  our  own  wise  plans  for  capturing 
Sir  Henry  and  all  Ms  host. 

At  last  we  ran  ashore  at  a  settled  point  called 
Nyack,  and  thence  we  went  to  and  fro  wherever  we 
saw  the  smoke  of  men's  homes.  We  broke  up  or 
burned  many  boats  and  dugouts,  amid  the  lamenta- 
tions of  their  owners,  because  with  the  aid  of  these 
they  were  enabled  to  take  fish,  and  were  ill  off  for 
other  diet.  We  had  an  ugly  task,  and  could  only 
regret  the  sad  but  inexorable  necessities  of  war. 

We  camped  ten  miles  above  Tappan,  and  next 
day,  near  to  dusk,  got  as  far  as  King's  Landing, 
having  pretty  thoroughly  attended  to  our  ungracious 
task. 

As  the  tall  promontory  of  Stony  Point  rose  before 
us,  dim  in  the  evening  light,  we  talked  of  Wayne's 
gallant  storming  of  this  formidable  fort,  and  of  his 
affection  for  the  bayonet,  which,  he  said,  was  to  be 
preferred  to  the  musket  because  it  was  always  loaded. 

"We  of  our  State  had  most  of  that  glory,"  said 
Jack ;  "  and  all  our  best  generals,  save  the  great  chief, 
are  men  of  the  North,"  which  was  true  and  strange. 

We  had  at  this  place  a  strong  force  of  horse  and 
foot,  and  here  we  meant  to  pass  the  night  with  some 
of  our  officers,  friends  of  Jack's. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      447 

It  was  quite  dark,  wlieu,  ninuing:  in  with  a  free 
sheet,  we  came  close  to  a  large  barge  rowed  by 
six  men.  As  we  approached  I  lieard  a  stern  order 
to  keep  off,  and  recognised  in  tlie  boat,  where  were 
also  amied  men,  Major  Tallmadge,  whom  I  knew.  I 
called  to  him,  but  as  he  only  repeated  his  order,  I 
answered,  "Very  well,  su';"  and  we  di'ew  in  to  the 
shore  some  humh-ed  feet  away. 

Jack  said  it  was  queer ;  what  could  it  mean  ?  We 
walked  toward  the  small  blockhouse  in  time  to  see 
Tallmadge  and  several  soldiers  conduct  a  cloaked 
prisoner  into  the  fort.  A  little  later  the  major  came 
out,  and  at  once  asked  me  to  excuse  his  abruptness, 
sjiying  that  he  had  in  charge  Sir  Henry  Clinton's 
adjutant-general,  wlu)  had  been  caught  acting  as  a 
spy,  and  was  now  about  to  be  taken  to  Tappan.  I 
exclaimed,  "  Not  Major  Andre  !  " 

"Yes,"  he  returned,-  "Andr^.  A  bad  business.'' 
And  I  was  hastily  told  the  miserable  stoiy  of  Ar- 
nold's treason  and  flight.  I  turned  to  Jack.  "  There 
it  is,"  said  I.  "  \Vhat  of  raj*  presentiment  ? "  He  was 
silent.  "  You  know,"  T  added,  "  that  to  this  man  I 
owed  my  life  at  the  Misdiianza  ball;  here  he  is  in 
the  same  trap  from  which  his  refusal  to  aid  my 
cousin  saved  me."  I  was  ton-iblv  distres.sed,  and  at 
my  urgent  desire,  in  jihu-e  of  remaining  at  the  fort,, 
we  set  out  after  supper,  and  pulled  dovm  the  river 
against  the  flood-tide,  while  my  unfortimatc  friend 
Andr6  was  burned  away  to  Tappan,  guarded  by  a 
strong  escort  of  light  horse. 

We  reached  Sneedon's  Landing  about  5  a.  m.,  and 


448      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  went  up  with  Jack  to  his  hut.  Here  I  got  a  bit  of 
uneasy  sleep,  and  thence  set  off  to  find  Hamilton; 
for  the  whole  staff,  with  his  Excellency,  had  made 
haste  to  reach  the  camp  at  Tappan  so  soon  as  the 
general  felt  reassured  as  to  the  safety  of  West 
Point. 

I  walked  a  half-mile  up  a  gentle  rise  of  ground  to 
the  main  road,  about  which  were  set,  close  to  the  old 
Dutch  church,  a  few  modest,  one-story  stone  houses, 
with  far  and  near  the  cantonments  of  the  armies. 
At  the  bridge  over  a  noisy  brook  I  was  stopped 
by  sentries  set  around  a  low  brick  building  then 
used  as  headquarters.  It  stood  amid  scattered 
apple-trees  on  a  shght  rise  of  ground,  and  was,  as  I 
recall  it,  built  of  red  and  black  brick.  Behind  the 
house  was  the  little  camp  of  the  mounted  guard,  and 
on  all  sides  were  stationed  sentinels,  who  kept  the 
immediate  grounds  clear  from  intrusion.  For  this 
there  was  need ;  soldiers  and  officers  were  continu- 
ally coming  hither  in  hopes  to  gather  fresh  news 
of  the  great  treason,  or  curious  as  to  this  strange 
capture  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton's  adjutant.  General 
ofiicers  came  and  went  with  grave  faces;  aides 
mounted  and  rode  away  in  haste;  all  was  excite- 
ment and  anxious  interest,  every  one  asking  ques- 
tions, and  none  much  the  wiser.  With  difficulty  I 
succeeded  in  sending  in  a  note  to  Hamilton  along 
with  Jack's  report.  This  was  nigh  to  nine  in  the 
morning,  but  it  was  after  midday  before  I  got  a 
chance  to  see  my  friend. 

Meanwhile  I  walked  up  and  down  in  a  state  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      449 

such  afritation  aiid  distress  Jis  never  before  nor  since 
have  I  known.  Wlien  I  had  seen  Major  Tallmadge, 
he  knew  but  little  of  tliose  details  of  Arnold's  treason 
which  later  became  the  property  of  all  men  -,  but  he 
did  teU  me  that  the  correspondence  had  been  carried 
on  for  ISir  llonry  by  Andre  in  the  name  of  Ander- 
son, and  this  brought  to  my  mind  the  letter  which 
the  Quaker  farmer  declined  to  surrender  to  me  at  the 
time  I  was  serving  as  Arnold's  aide.  I  went  back 
at  last  to  Jack's  hut  in  the  valley  near  the  river  and 
waited.  I  leave  Jack  to  say  how  I  felt  and  acted  that 
day  and  evening,  as  I  lay  and  thought  of  Andr6 
and  of  poor  Margaret  Shippen.  Arnold's  wife : 

**  Never  have  I  seen  my  dear  Hugh  in  such  trouble. 
Here  was  a  broken-hearted  woman,  tlie  companion 
of  his  cliildhood  ;  and  Andre,  wlio,  at  a  moment  which 
must  have  called  uj>on  his  every  instinct  as  a  soldier, 
held  back  and  saved  my  friend  from  a  fate  but  too 
likely  to  be  his  own.  Hugh  all  that  evening  lay  in 
our  hut,  and  now  and  then  would  break  out  declar- 
ing he  must  do  something;  l>ut  what  he  knew  not, 
nor  did  I.  He  was  even  so  ma<l  as  to  think  he  might 
j»hin  some  way  to  assist  Andrr  to  escape.  I  Hstonod, 
hut  .';aid  notliing,  being  assured  from  long  knowledge 
that  his  judgment  would  corrnct  tlie  influence  of  the 
emotion  which  did  at  first  seem  to  disturb  it. 

"Now  all  this  miserable  business  is  over,  I  ask 
myself  if  our  chief  would  have  tried  to  buy  an  Eng- 
lish general,  or  if  so,  would  I  or  Hugh  have  gone 
on  such  an  errand  aw  Andrei's.  To  be  a  spy  is  but 
a  simple  duty,  and  no  shame  in  it;  })ut  as  to  the 
39 


450      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

shape  this  other  matter  took,  I  do  not  feel  able  to 
decide." 

Still  later  he  adds : 

"  Nor  is  my  mind  more  fuUy  settled  as  to  it  to-day ; 
some  think  one  way,  some  another.  I  had  rather 
Andre  had  not  gone  on  this  errand  with  the  promise 
of  a  great  reward.  Yet  I  think  he  did  believe  he  was 
only  doing  his  duty." 

After  an  hour  or  more  of  fruitless  thinking,  not 
hearing  from  Mr.  Hamilton,  I  walked  back  to  head- 
quarters. Neither  in  the  joy  and  pride  of  glad  news, 
nor  when  disaster  on  disaster  f  eU  on  us,  have  I  ever 
seen  anything  like  the  intensity  of  expectation  and  of 
anxiety  which  at  this  time  reigned  in  our  camps.  The 
capture  of  the  adjutant-general  was  grave  enough ; 
his  fate  hung  in  no  doubtful  balance ;  but  the  feehng 
aroused  by  the  fall  of  a  great  soldier,  the  dishonour 
of  one  greatly  esteemed  in  the  ranks,  the  fear  of  what 
else  might  come,  all  served  to  foster  uneasiness  and 
to  feed  suspicion.  As  the  great  chief  had  said,  whom 
now  could  he  trust,  or  could  we  ?  The  men  talked  in 
half- whispers  about  the  camp-fires ;  an  hundred  wild 
rumours  were  afloat ;  and  now  and  again  eager  eyes 
looked  toward  the  low  brick  church  where  twelve 
general  officers  were  holding  the  court-martial  which 
was  to  decide  the  fate  of  my  friend. 

It  was  evening  before  the  decision  of  the  court- 
martial  became  generally  known.  I  wandered  about 
all  that  day  in  the  utmost  depression  of  mind. 
About  two  in  the  afternoon  of  this  29th  of  Septem- 
ber I  met  Hamilton  near  the  creek.    He  said  he  had 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      451 

been  busy  iill  day,  and  was  free  for  an  hour ;  would 
I  come  and  dine  at  his  quai'ters?  What  was  the 
matter  ■with  me?  I  was  glad  of  a  chance  to  speak 
freely.  We  had  a  long  and  a  sad  talk,  and  he  then 
learned  why  this  miserable  affair  affected  me  so 
deeply.  He  had  no  belief  that  the  court  could  do 
other  than  condemn  Mr.  Andre  to  die.  I  asked  anx- 
iously if  the  chief  were  certain  to  approve  the  sen- 
tence. He  replied  gloomily,  "As  sui-ely  as  there  is  a 
God  in  heaven.'' 

I  could  only  wait.  A  hundred  schemes  were  in 
my  mind,  each  as  useless  as  the  others.  In  fact,  I 
knew  not  what  to  do. 

On  the  30th  his  Excellency  signed  the  death-war- 
rant, and,  all  hope  being  at  an  end,  I  determined  to 
make  an  effort  to  see  the  man  to  whom  I  beheve  I 
owed  my  life.  "WTien  I  represented  the  matter  to 
Mr.  Hamilton  and  to  the  Marquis  de  Lafayette,  I  put 
my  request  on  the  ground  that  j\Ir.  Andre  had  here 
no  one  who  could  be  called  a  friend,  excepting  only 
myself,  and  that  to  refuse  me  an  interN-iew  were 
needlessly  cniel.  I  wrote  my  application  with  care, 
the  marquis,  who  was  most  kind  throughout,  charg- 
ing himself  with  the  business  of  ])laeing  it  favourably 
before  our  chief.  The  execution  had  been  ordered 
for  October  1,  but,  upon  receipt  of  some  communica- 
tion from  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  it  was  postponed  until 
noon  on  Octol>er  2. 

On  the  30th  I  rode  out  into  the  hills  back  of  Tap- 
pan,  and  tried  to  compose  myself  by  my  usual  and 
effective  remedy  of  a  hard  ride.   It  was  useless  now. 


452      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  came  back  to  my  friend's  quarters  and  tried  to  read, 
finding  a  stray  volume  of  the  "  Rambler  "  on  his  table. 
It  was  as  vain  a  resort. 

Never  at  any  time  in  my  memory  have  I  spent  two 
days  of  such  unhappiness.  I  could  get  no  rest  and 
no  peace  of  mind.  To  be  thus  terribly  in  the  grip 
of  events  over  which  you  have  no  control  is  to  men 
of  my  temper  a  maddening  affliction.  My  heart 
seemed  all  the  time  to  say,  "  Do  something,"  and  my 
reason  to  reply,  "  There  is  nothing  to  do."  It  was 
thus  in  the  jail  when  my  cousin  was  on  my  mind; 
now  it  was  as  to  Andre,  and  as  to  the  great  debt  I 
owed  him,  and  how  to  paj^  it.  People  who  despaii* 
easily  do  not  fall  into  the  clutches  of  this  intense 
craving  for  some  practical  means  of  relief  where 
none  can  be.  It  is  the  hopeful,  the  resolute,  and  such 
as  are  educated  by  success  who  suffer  thus.  But  why 
inflict  on  others  the  stoiy  of  these  two  days,  except 
to  let  those  who  come  after  me  learn  how  one  of 
theii"  blood  looked  upon  a  noble  debt  which,  alas ! 
like  many  debts,  must  go  to  be  settled  in  another 
world,  and  in  other  ways  than  ours. 

Hamilton,  who  saw  my  agitation,  begged  me  to 
prepare  for  disappointment.  I,  however,  could  see 
no  reason  to  deny  a  man  access  to  one  doomed,  when 
no  other  friend  was  near.  Nor  was  I  wrong.  About 
seven  in  the  evening  of  the  1st,  the  marquis  came  in 
haste  to  find  me.  He  had  asked  for  my  interview 
with  Mr,  Andre  as  a  favour  to  himself.  His  Excel, 
lency  had  granted  the  request  in  the  face  of  objec- 
tions from  two  general  officers,  whom  the  marquis 


Hugh  \\'ynne:  Free  Quaker      453 

did  uot  luuuo.     As  I  thuiiked  him  he  g:ave  me  this 
order : 


"  To  Major  TaJlmadge: 

"  The  beai'er,  llw^h.  "Wynne,  Esq.,  Captain,  Second 
Company,  Third  Ke«jrimeut  of  Pennsylvania  foot,  has 
herewith  jx^rmission  to  visit  Major  Andre. 

"Geo*^  Washington. 

"October  1,  1780." 

I  went  at  once— it  was  now  close  to  eight  in  the 
eveninj; — to  the  small  honse  of  one  Mabv,  where  the 
prisoner  was  kept.  It  Avas  but  an  hundred  yards 
from  his  Excellency's  quarters.  Six  sentries  marched 
to  and  fro  aroimd  it,  and  within  the  room  two  officers 
remained  day  and  night  witli  drawn  swords.  My 
pass  was  taken  at  the  door  of  the  house,  while  I 
waited  on  the  road  without.  In  a  few  minutes  an 
officer  came  to  me  with  Major  Tallnuidge's  compli- 
ments, and  would  I  be  pleased  to  enter? 

I  sometimes  think  it  strange  how,  even  in  partic- 
nlai's,  the  natural  and  other  scenery  of  this  dark 
drama  remains  distinct  in  my  memor}',  uiuiffected  by 
the  obliterating  influence  of  the  years  which  have 
effaced  so  much  else  I  had  been  more  glad  to  keep. 

I  can  see  to-day  the  rising  mo<>n,  the  yellowisli 
road,  the  long,  gray  stone  farm-house  of  one  story, 
with  windows  set  in  an  irregular  fnime  of  ])rifkwork. 
The  door  opens,  and  I  find  myself  in  a  short  hall, 
where  two  officers  sahile  as  I  pas.s.  My  conductor 
says,  "Tliis  way,  Captain  "Wynne,"  and  I  enter  a 


454      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

long,  cheerless-looking  apartment,  the  sitting-room 
of  a  Dutch  farm-house.  Two  lieutenants,  seated 
within  at  the  doorway,  rose  as  I  entered,  and,  salut- 
ing me,  sat  down  again.  I  stood  an  instant  looking 
about  me.  A  huge  log  fire  roared  on  the  hearth,  so 
lighting  the  room  that  I  saw  its  glow  catch  the  bay- 
onet tips  of  the  sentinels  outside  as  they  went  and 
came.  There  were  a  half-dozen  wooden  chairs,  and 
on  a  pine  table  four  candles  burning,  a  bottle  of 
Hollands,  a  decanter  and  glasses.  In  a  liigh-backed 
chair  sat  a  man  with  his  face  to  the  fire.  It  was 
Andre.  He  was  tranquilly  sketching,  with  a  quill 
pen,  a  likeness  of  himseK.^  He  did  not  tui-n  or  leave 
off  drawing  until  Captain  Tomlinson,  one  of  the 
oiScers  in  charge,  seeing  me  pause,  said: 

"  Your  pardon,  major.  Here  is  a  gentleman  come 
to  visit  you." 

As  he  spoke  the  prisoner  turned,  and  I  was  at  once 
struck  by  the  extreme  pallor  of  his  face  even  as  seen 
in  the  red  light  of  the  fire.  His  death-like  whiteness 
at  this  time  brought  out  the  regular  beauty  of  his 
features  as  his  usual  ruddiness  of  coloiu'  never  did. 
I  have  since  seen  strong  men  near  to  certain 
death,  but  I  recall  no  one  who,  with  a  serene  and  un- 
troubled visage,  was  yet  as  white  as  was  this  gentle- 
man. 

The  captain  did  not  present  me,  and  for  a  moment 
I  stood  with  a  kind  of  choking  in  the  throat,  which 
came,  I  suppose,  of  the  great  shock  Andre's  appear- 
ance gave  me.     He  was  thus  the  first  to  speak : 

1  My  acquaintance,  Captain  Tomlinson,  has  it. 


Plugh  \\'ynne:  Free  Quaker      455 

*•  Pai'don  me,"  he  said,  as  he  rose ;  "  the  name 
escaped  me." 

••  Mr.  Hugh  Wyuue,"  I  said,  gettiug  myself  pulled 
together— it  was  much  needed. 

"  Oh,  Wynne  ! ''  he  cried  quite  joyously ;  "  I  did 
not  know  you.  How  delightful  to  see  a  friend ;  how 
good  of  you  to  come !  Sit  down.  Our  aecommoda- 
tions  are  sUght.  Thanks  to  his  Excellency,  here  are 
Madeu-a  and  Hollands ;  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  ?  " 

''  No,  no,"  I  said,  as  we  took  chairs  by  the  fire,  on 
which  he  cast  a  log,  remarking  how  cold  it  was. 
Then  he  added : 

'•Well,  Wjnine,  what  ean  I  do  for  you?"  And 
then,  smihng,  "Pshaw  !  what  a  thing  is  haljit !  What 
can  I  do  for  you,  or,  indeed,  my  dear  Wynne,  for  any 
one  ?     But,  Lord  !  I  am  as  glad  as  a  child." 

It  was  all  so  sweet  and  natural  that  I  was  again 
quite  overcome.  "  My  God  !  "  I  cried,  "  I  am  so  sorry, 
Mr.  Andr^» !  I  came  down  from  King's  Ferr}'  in 
haste  when  I  heard  of  this,  and  have  been  three  days 
getting  leave  to  see  you.  I  have  never  forgotten 
your  great  kindness  at  the  Mischianza.  If  there 
be  any  service  I  can  render  you,  I  am  come  to 
offer  it." 

He  smiled  and  said:  "How  strange  is  fate,  Mr. 
Wynne !  Here  am  I  in  the  same  sad  trap  in  which 
you  might  have  been.  I  was  thinking  this  very 
evening  of  your  happier  escape."  Then  he  went  on 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  instantly  recognised  me  at  the 
ball,  and  also  — wluit  in  my  confusion  at  the  time  I 
did  not  hear— that  MLsb  Peniijton  had  cried  out  as 


456      Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker 

she  was  about  to  faint,  "  No,  no,  Mr.  Andre  ! "  After- 
ward he  had  wondered  at  what  seemed  an  appeal  to 
him  rather  than  to  my  cousin. 

At  last  he  said  it  would  be  a  relief  to  him  if  he 
might  speak  to  me  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  ofi&cers.  I 
said  as  much  to  these  gentlemen,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  they  retired  outside  of  the  still  open  door- 
way of  the  room,  leaving  us  freer  to  say  what  we 
pleased.  He  was  quiet  and,  as  always,  courteous  to 
a  fault ;  but  I  did  not  fail  to  observe  that  at  times, 
as  we  talked  and  he  spoke  a  word  of  his  mother,  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  In  general  he  was  far  more 
composed  than  I. 

He  said :  "  Mr.  Wynne,  I  have  writ  a  letter,  which 
I  am  allowed  to  send  to  General  "Washington.  Will 
you  see  that  he  has  it  in  person  ?  It  asks  that  I  may 
die  a  soldier's  death.  All  else  is  done.  My  mother 
— but  no  matter.  I  have  wound  up  my  earthly  affairs. 
I  am  assured,  through  the  kindness  of  his  Excellency, 
that  my  letters  and  effects  will  reach  my  friends  and 
those  who  are  still  closer  to  me.  I  had  hoped  to  see 
Mr.  Hamilton  to-night,  that  I  might  ask  him  to  de- 
liver to  your  chief  the  letter  I  now  give  you.  But 
he  has  not  yet  returned,  and  I  must  trust  it  to  you 
to  make  sure  that  it  does  not  fail  to  be  considered. 
That  is  all,  I  think." 

I  said  I  would  do  my  best,  and  was  there  no  more 
—  no  errand  of  confidence  —  nothing  else? 

"  No,"  he  replied  thoughtfully ;  "  no,  I  think  not. 
I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness."  Then  he  smiled 
and    added,  "My   'never'  is  a  brief  day  for  me, 


Huj^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       457 


Wynne,  unless  God  permits  us  to  remember  iu  the 
world  where  I  shidl  be  to-morrow." 

I  hardly  reeull  what  answer  I  made.  I  was  ready 
to  cry  like  a  ehild.  He  went  on  to  bid  me  say  to  the 
good  Attorney-General  Chew  that  he  had  not  for- 
gotten his  pleasantbospitalities,  and  he  sent  also  some 
amiable  message  to  the  women  of  his  house  and  to 
my  aunt  and  to  the  Shippens,  speaking  with  the 
ease  and  unrestraint  of  a  man  who  looks  to  meet 
you  at  dinner  next  week,  and  merely  says  a  brief 
good-by. 

I  pr.,mised  to  charge  myself  with  his  messages, 
and  said  at  last  that  many  officers  desired  me  to  ex- 
I)ress  to  him  their  sorrrow  at  his  unhappy  situation, 
and  that  all  men  thought  it  hard  that  the  life  of  an 
honest  soldier  was  to  be  taken  in  place  of  that  of  a 
villain  and  coward  who,  if  he  had  an  atom  of  honour, 
would  give  himself  up. 

"  May  I  beg  of  you,  sir,"  he  returned,  "  to  thank 
these  gentlemen  of  your  army  t  'Tis  all  I  can  do ; 
and  as  to  General  Arnold  —  no,  Wynne,  he  is  not  one 
to  do  that ;  I  could  not  expect  it." 

Before  I  rose  to  go  on  his  errand  I  said, —  and  I  was 
H  little  embarrassed,—  "  May  I  be  pardoned,  sir,  if  I 
put  to  you  a  (piite  personal  (piestiou  ?  " 

"  A.ssuredly,"  he  returned.  ''  What  is  it,  and  how 
can  a  poor  devil  in  my  situation  oblige  you?" 

I  said:  "I  have  but  of  late  learned  that  the  ex- 
changes were  all  .settled  when  I  met  my  cousin, 
Arthur  Wynne,  at  Araboy.  Could  it  have  been  that 
the  letter  I  bore  had  anytliing  to  do  with  this  treason 


45  S      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

of  General  Ai-nold?  Within  a  day  or  two  this 
thought  has  come  to  me." 

Seeing  that  he  hesitated,  I  added,  "  Do  not  answer 
me  unless  you  see  fit ;  it  is  a  matter  quite  personal 
to  myself." 

"  No,"  he  replied ;  "  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should 
not.  Yes,  it  was  the  first  of  the  letters  sent  to  Sir 
Henry  over  General  Arnold's  signature.  Your  cousin 
suggested  you  as  a  messenger  whose  undoubted  posi- 
tion and  name  would  insure  the  safe  carriage  of 
what  meant  more  to  us  than  its  mere  contents  seemed 
to  imply.  Other  messengers  had  become  unsafe ;  it 
was  needful  at  once  to  find  a  certain  way  to  reply  to 
us.  The  letter  you  bore  was  such  as  an  officer  might 
carry,  as  it  dealt  seemingly  with  nothing  beyond 
questions  of  exchange  of  prisoners.  For  these  rea- 
sons, on  a  hint  from  Captain  Wynne,  you  were  se- 
lected as  a  person  beyond  suspicion.  I  was  ill  at  the 
time,  as  I  believe  Mr.  Wynne  told  you." 

"  It  is  only  too  plain,"  said  I.  "  It  must  have  been 
well  known  at  our  headquarters  in  Jersey  that  this 
exchange  business  was  long  since  settled.  Had  I 
been  overhauled  by  any  shrewd  or  suspicious  officer, 
the  letter  might  weU  have  excited  doubt  and  have 
led  to  inquiry." 

"  Probably ;  that  was  why  you  were  chosen— as  a 
man  of  known  character.  By  the  way,  sir,  I  had  no 
'share  in  the  selection,  nor  did  I  know  how  it  came 
about,  until  my  recovery.    I  had  no  part  in  it." 

I  thanked  him  for  thus  teUing  me  of  his  having 
no  share  in  the  matter. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      459 

"  You  were  ordered,"  he  continued,  "  as  I  recall  it, 
to  avoid  your  main  army  in  tlie  Jerseys ;  you  can 
now  see  why.  There  is  no  need  of  further  conceal- 
ment." 

It  was  clear  enough.  "  I  owe  you,"  I  said,  "  my 
excuses  for  intruding  a  business  so  personal." 

"And  why  not?  I  am  glad  to  serve  you.  It  is 
rather  a  relief,  sii*,  to  talk  of  something  else  than  my 
own  hopeless  Ciise.  Is  there  anything  else  ?  Pray 
go  on  ;  I  am  at  your  service." 

"  You  are  most  kind.  I  have  but  one  word  to  add  ; 
Arthur  Wynne  was— nay,  must  have  been— deep  in 
this  business?"' 

"  All,  now  you  have  asked  too  much,"  he  replied ; 
"but  it  is  I  who  am  t(»  blame.  I  had  no  right  to 
name  Captain  Wynne." 

"  You  must  not  feel  unea^sy.  I  owe  him  no  love, 
Mr.  Andr6 ;  but  I  will  take  care  that  vou  do  not 
suffer.  His  suggestion  that  I  should  be  made  use  of 
put  in  peril  not  my  life,  but  my  honoiu*.  It  is  not 
to  my  interest  that  the  matter  should  ever  get  noised 
abroad." 

'•  I  see,"  he  said.  "  Your  cousin  must  be  a  strange 
person.  Do  with  what  I  have  said  as  seems  right  to 
you.  I  shall  lie— or  rather,"  and  he  smiled  quite 
cheerfully,  "  1  (idi  content.  One's  grammar  forgets 
to-morrow  sometimes." 

His  ease  and  quiet  .seemed  to  me  amazing.  But 
it  was  getting  late,  and  I  said  I  must  go  at  once. 

As  I  was  in  act  to  leave,  he  took  my  hand  and  said  : 
"  There  are  no  thanks  a  man  about  to  die  can  give 


460      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

that  I  do  not  offer  you,  Mr.  Wynne.  Be  assured 
your  visit  has  helped  me.  It  is  much  to  see  the  face 
of  a  friend.  All  men  have  been  good  to  me  and  kmd, 
and  none  more  so  than  his  Excellency.  If  to-morrow 
I  could  see,  as  I  go  to  death,  one  face  I  have  knoMTi 
in  happier  hours — it  is  much  to  ask — I  may  count  on 
you,  I  am  sure.  Ah,  I  see  I  can !  And  my  letter— 
you  will  be  sure  to  do  your  best  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  not  trusting  myself  to  speak  further, 
and  only  adding,  "  Good-by,"  as  I  wrung  his  hand. 
Then  I  went  out  into  the  cold  October  starlight. 

It  was  long  after  ten  when  I  found  Hamilton.  I 
told  him  briefly  of  my  interview,  and  asked  if  it 
would  be  possible  for  me  to  dehver  in  person  to  the 
general  Mr.  Andre's  letter.  I  had,  in  fact,  that  on 
my  mind  which,  if  but  a  crude  product  of  despair,  I 
yet  did  wish  to  say  where  alone  it  might  help  or  be 
considered. 

Hamilton  shook  his  head.  "I  have  so  troubled 
his  Excellency  as  to  this  poor  fellow  that  I  fear  I  can 
do  no  morCo  Men  who  do  not  know  my  chief  cannot 
imagine  the  distress  of  heart  this  business  has  caused. 
I  do  not  mean,  Wynne,  that  he  has  or  had  the  least 
indecision  concerning  the  sentence ;  but  lean  teU  you 
this— the  signature  of  approval  of  the  court's  finding 
is  tremulous  and  unlike  his  usual  writing.  We  will 
talk  of  this  again.  Will  you  wait  at  my  quarters  ? 
I  wUl  do  my  best  for  you." 

I  said  I  would  take  a  pipe  and  walk  on  the  road 
at  the  foot  of  the  slope  below  the  house  in  which 
Washington  resided.     With  this  he  left  me- 


Hugh\\Vnne:  Free  Quaker      461 

The  night  was  clear  and  beautiful ;  from  the  low 
hills  far  and  near  the  eani})  bugle-cidls  and  the  sound 
of  hoi-ses  neighing  filled  the  air.  Uneasy  and  restless, 
I  walked  to  and  fro  up  and  down  the  road  below 
the  little  farm-house.  Once  or  twice  I  fancied  I  saw 
the  tall  figure  of  the  chief  pass  across  the  window- 
panes.  A  hundred  yards  away  was  the  house  I  had 
just  left.  There  sat  a  gallant  gentleman  awaiting 
death.  Here,  in  the  house  above  me,  was  he  in  whose 
hands  lay  his  fate.  I  pitied  him  too,  and  wondered 
if  in  his  place  I  could  be  sternly  just.  At  my  feet 
the  little  brook  babljled  in  the  night,  whOe  the  camp 
noises  slowly  died  away.  Meantime,  intent  on  my 
purpose,  I  tried  to  arrange  in  mj^  mind  what  I  would 
say  or  how  plead  a  lost  cause.  I  have  often  thus  pre- 
airanged  the  mode  of  saying  what  some  serious 
occasion  made  needful.  I  always  get  ready,  but  when 
the  time  comes  I  am  apt  to  say  things  altogether 
different,  and  to  find,  too,  that  the  wisdom  of  the 
minute  is  apt  to  be  the  better  wisdom. 

At  last  I  saw  Hamilton  approa<'liing  me  through 
the  gloom.  "  Come,"'  he  said.  "  Uis  Excellenc}'  will 
see  you,  but  I  fear  it  will  be  of  no  use.  He  himself 
would  agree  to  a  change  in  the  form  of  death,  but 
Generals  Greene  and  Sullivan  are  strongly  of  opinion 
that  to  do  so  in  the  present  state  of  exasperation 
would  be  unwLse  and  imijolitic.  I  cannot  say  what 
I  should  do  were  I  he.  I  am  glad,  Wynne,  that  it  is 
not  I  who  have  to  decide.  I  lose  my  sense  of  the 
equities  of  life  in  tlu*  face  of  .so  sad  a  business.  At 
least  I  woidd  give  him  u  gentleman's  death.     The 


462      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

generals  who  tried  the  case  say  that  to  condemn  a 
man  as  a  spy,  and  not  at  last  to  deal  with  him  as 
Hale  was  dealt  with,  would  be  impolitic,  and  unfair 
to  men  who  were  as  gallant  as  the  poor  fellow  in 
yonder  farm-house." 

"  It  is  only  too  clear,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  they  are  right,  I  suppose ;  but  it  is  a  horrible 
business." 

As  we  discussed,  I  went  with  him  past  the  sentinels 
around  the  old  stone  house  and  through  a  hall,  and 
to  left  into  a  large  room, 

"The  general  sleeps  here,"  Hamilton  said,  in  a 
lowered  voice.  "  We  have  but  these  two  apartments ; 
across  the  passage  is  his  dining-room,  which  he  uses 
as  his  of&ce.  Wait  here,"  and  so  saying,  he  left  me. 
The  room  was  large,  some  fifteen  by  eighteen  feet, 
but  so  low-ceiled  that  the  Dutch  builder  had  need  to 
contrive  a  recess  in  the  ceiling  to  permit  of  a  place 
for  the  tall  Dutch  clock  he  had  brought  from  Hoi- 
land.  Around  the  chimney-piece  M^ere  Dutch  tiles. 
Black  Billy,  the  general's  servant,  sat  asleep  in  the 
corner,  and  two  aides  slumbered  on  the  floor,  tu'ed 
out,  I  fancy.  1  walked  to  and  fro  over  the  creaking 
boards,  and  watched  the  Dutch  clock.  As  it  struck 
eleven  the  figure  of  Time,  seated  below  the  dial,  swung 
a  scythe  and  turned  a  tiny  hour-glass.  A  bell  rang ; 
an  orderly  came  in  and  woke  up  an  aide :  "  Despatch 
for  West  Point,  sir,  in  haste."  The  young  fellow 
groaned,  stuck  the  paper  in  his  belt,  and  went  out 
for  his  long  night  ride. 

At  last  my  friend  returned.    "  The  general  will  see 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      463 

you  presently,  "Wynne,  but  it  is  a  useless  errand 
Give  me  Amli-e's  letter."  With  this  he  left  me  aj^ain, 
and  I  continued  my  impatient  walk.  In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  eame  back,  "  Come,"  said  he ;  "  I  have 
done  my  best,  but  I  have  failed  as  I  expected  to  fail. 
Speiik  your  mind  fi-eely ;  he  likes  frankness."  I  wont 
after  him,  and  in  a  moment  was  in  the  fai'ther  room 
and  alone  with  the  chief. 

A  huge  fire  of  logs  blazed  on  the  great  kitchen 
hearth,  and  at  a  table  covered  with  maps  and  papers, 
neatly  set  in  ordiT,  the  general  sat  writing. 

He  looked  up,  and  with  quiet  courtesy  said,  "Take 
a  seat.  Captain  Wynne.  I  nuist  be  held  excused  for 
a  little."  I  bowed  and  sat  down,  while  he  continued 
to  write. 

His  pen  moved  slowly,  and  he  paused  at  times,  and 
then  went  on  apparently  with  the  utmost  delibera- 
tion. I  wa.>*  favourably  placed  to  watch  him  without 
appearing  to  do  so,  his  face  being  strongly  lighted 
bv  the  candles  in  front  of  him.  He  was  dressed  with 
his  usual  care,  in  a  buff  waistcoat  and  a  blue-and-buff 
uniform,  with  powdered  hair  drawn  back  to  a  queue 
and  carefully  tied  with  black  ribbon. 

The  face,  with  its  light-blue  eyes,  ruddy  cheeks, 
and  rather  hea\y  nose  above  a  strong  jaw,  was  now 
grave  and,  I  thought,  .stern.  At  least  a  half-liour 
went  by  before  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  looked 
up. 

I  am  fortunate  as  regards  this  conversation,  since 
on  my  return  I  set  it  down  in  a  diary  which,  how 
ever,  ha^s  many  gaps,  and  is  elsewhere  incomplete. 


464      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


"  Captain  Wynne,"  he  said,  "  I  have  refused  to  see 
several  gentlemen  in  regard  to  this  sad  business, 
but  I  learn  that  Mr,  Andre  was  your  friend,  and  I 
have  not  forgotten  your  aunt's  timely  aid  at  a  mo- 
ment when  it  was  sorely  needed.  For  these  reasons 
and  at  the  earnest  request  of  Captain  Hamilton  and 
the  marquis,  I  am  willing  to  hsten  to  you.  May  I 
ask  you  to  be  brief  f "  He  spoke  slowly,  as  if  weigh- 
ing his  words. 

I  replied  that  I  was  most  grateful — that  I  owed  it 
to  Major  Andre  that  I  had  not  long  ago  endured  the 
fate  which  was  now  to  be  his. 

"Permit  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "to  ask  when  this  oc- 
curred." 

I  replied  that  it  was  when,  at  his  Excellency's 
desire,  I  had  entered  Philadelphia  as  a  spy ;  and  then 
I  went  on  briefly  to  relate  what  had  happened. 

"  Sir,"  he  returned,  "  you  owed  your  danger  to 
folly,  not  to  what  your  duty  brought.  You  were 
false,  for  the  time,  to  that  duty.  But  this  does  not 
concern  us  now.  It  may  have  served  as  a  lesson, 
and  I  am  free  to  admit  that  you  did  your  country  a 
great  service.  What  now  can  I  do  for  you  ?  As  to 
this  unhappy  gentleman,  his  fate  is  out  of  my  hands. 
I  have  read  the  letter  which  Captain  Hamilton  gave 
me."  As  he  spoke  he  took  it  from  the  table  and 
deliberately  read  it  again,  while  I  watched  him. 
Then  he  laid  it  down  and  looked  up.  I  saw  that  his 
big,  patient  eyes  were  overfuU  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  regret,  sir,  to  have  to  refuse  this  most  natural 
request ;  I  have  told  Mr.  Hamilton  that  it  is  not  to 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      4O5 

be  thought  of.  Neither  shall  I  reply.  It  is  not  fit- 
ting that  I  should  do  so,  nor  is  it  necessary  or  even 
proper  that  I  assign  reasons  which  must  already  be 
plain  to  every  man  of  sense.     Is  that  all?" 

I  said,  "  Your  Excellency,  may  I  ask  but  a  minute 
more  T '' 

"  I  am  at  your  disposal,  sir,  for  so  long.  What  is  it  ?" 

I  hesitated,  and,  I  suspect,  showed  plainly  in  my 
face  my  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  what  was  most 
on  my  mind  when  I  sought  this  inter\iew.  He  in- 
stantly guessed  that  I  was  embarrassed,  and  said, 
with  the  geutk>st  manner  and  a  slight  smile : 

'•  Ah,  Mr.  Wynne,  there  is  nothing  which  can  be 
done  to  save  your  friend,  nor  indeed  to  alter  his 
fate ;  but  if  you  desire  to  say  more  do  not  hesitate. 
You  have  suffered  much  for  the  cause  which  is  dear 
to  us  both.     Go  on,  sii*." 

Thus  encouraged,  I  said,  "  If  on  any  pretext  the 
execution  can  be  delayed  a  week,  I  am  ready  to  go 
with  a  friend"— I  counted  on  Jack— "to  enter  New 
York  in  disguise,  and  to  bring  out  General  Arnold. 
I  have  been  his  aide,  I  know  all  his  habits,  and  I  am 
confident  that  we  shall  succeed  if  only  I  can  control 
near  New  York  a  detacliment  of  tried  men.  I  have 
thought  over  my  plau,  and  am  willing  to  risk  my  life 
ui>on  it." 

"  You  propo.se  a  gallant  venture,  sir,  but  it  would 
be  certain  to  fail;  the  .service  woidd  lose  another 
brave  man,  and  I  should  seem  to  have  been  wanting 
in  deci.^ion  for  no  just  or  assignable  cause." 

I  was  profoundly  disappointed ;  and  in  the  grief 

M 


466      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

of  my  failure  I  forgot  for  a  moment  the  august 
presence  which  imposed  on  all  men  the  respect 
which  no  sovereign  could  have  inspired. 

"My  God!  sir,"  I  exclaimed,  "and  this  traitor 
must  live  unpunished,  and  a  man  who  did  but  what 
he  believed  to  be  his  duty  must  suffer  a  death  of 
shame !  "  Then,  half  scared,  I  looked  up,  feeling 
that  I  had  said  too  much.  He  had  risen  before  I 
spoke,  meaning,  no  doubt,  to  bring  my  visit  to  an 
end,  and  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his 
admirable  figui-e  giving  the  impression  of  greater 
height  than  was  really  his. 

When,  after  my  passionate  speech,  I  looked  up, 
having  of  course  also  risen,  his  face  wore  a  look 
that  was  more  solemn  than  any  face  of  man  I  have 
ever  yet  seen  in  all  my  length  of  years. 

"  There  is  a  God,  Mr.  Wynne,"  he  said,  "  who  pun- 
ishes the  traitor.  Let  us  leave  this  man  to  the 
shame  which  every  year  must  bring.  Your  scheme 
I  cannot  consider.  I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  from 
you  or  from  any  gentleman  what  it  has  cost  me  to 
do  that  which,  as  God  lives,  I  believe  to  be  right. 
You,  sir,  have  done  your  duty  to  your  friend.  And 
now  may  I  ask  of  you  not  to  prolong  a  too  painful 
interview  ? " 

I  bowed,  saying,  "  I  cannot  thank  your  Excellency 
too  much  for  the  kindness  mth  which  you  have 
listened  to  a  rash  young  man." 

"  You  have  said  nothing,  sir,  which  does  not  do 
you  honour.  Make  my  humble  compliments  to 
Mistress  Wynne." 


Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker      467 

I  bowed,  and,  backinEr  a  pace  or  two,  was  about 
to  leave,  when  lie  said.  '•  Permit  ine  to  detain  you 
a  moment.  Ask  Mr.  Harrison— the  secretary— to 
come  to  me." 

I  obeyed,  and  then  in  some  wonder  stood  still, 
waitinir. 

"  Mr.  Harrison,  fetch  me  Captain  W}-nne's  papers." 
A  moment  later  he  sat  down  again,  ^vrote  the  free 
signature,  "  Geo'  Washington,"  at  the  foot  of  a  parch- 
ment, and  gave  it  to  me,  saying,  "  Tliat  boy  Hamilton 
ha>ibeentroul>lingme  foramonthabontthisbusiness. 
The  commission  is  but  now  come  to  hand  from 
Congress.  You  will  report,  at  your  early  conve- 
nience, as  major,  to  the  colonel  of  the  Third  Penn- 
sylvania foot ;  I  hope  it  will  gratify  your  aunt.  Ah, 
Colonel  Hamilton,"  for  here  the  favourite  aide  en- 
tered, '•  I  have  just  signed  Mr.  Wynne's  commission." 
Tlien  he  put  a  hand  affectionately  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  small,  slight  figure.  "You  will  see  that  the 
orders  are  all  given  for  the  execution  at  noon.  Not 
less  tlian  eighty  files  from  each  vnug  must  attend. 
Bee  that  none  of  my  staff  be  present,  and  that  this 
hou.se  be  kept  closed  to-morrow  until  night.  I  .shall 
transact  no  business  that  is  not  such  as  to  ask  in- 
Btant  attention.  See,  in  any  case,  that  I  am  alono 
from  eleven  until  one.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Wynne ; 
I  hope  that  you  will  shortly  honour  me  ■with  your 
company  at  dinner.  Pray,  remember  it,  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton." 

I  boieed  and  went  out,  oven'omc  with  the  kindli- 
ness of  this  great  and  noble  gentleman. 


468      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  He  likes  young  men,"  said  Hamilton  to  me  long 
afterward.  "An  old  officer  would  liave  been  sent 
away  with  small  comfort." 

It  was  now  late  in  the  night,  and,  thinking  to  com- 
pose myself,  I  walked  up  and  down  the  road  and  at 
last  past  the  Dutch  church,  and  up  the  hill  between 
rows  of  huts  and  rarer  tents.  It  was  a  clear,  starht 
night,  and  the  noises  of  the  great  camp  were  for  the 
most  part  stiUed.  A  gentle  slope  carried  me  up  the 
hiU,  back  of  Andi-e's  prison,  and  at  the  top  I  came  out 
on  a  space  clear  of  these  camp  homes,  and  stood 
awhile  under  the  quiet  of  the  star-peopled  sky.  I 
lighted  my  pipe  with  help  of  flint  and  steel,  and,  walk- 
ing to  and  fro,  set  myself  resolutely  to  calm  the  storm 
of  trouble  and  helpless  dismay  in  which  I  had  been 
for  two  weary  days.  At  last,  as  I  turned  in  my  walk, 
I  came  on  two  upright  posts  with  a  cross-beam  above. 
It  was  the  gallows.  I  moved  away  horror-stricken, 
and  with  swift  steps  went  down  the  hiU  and  regained 
Jack's  quarters. 

Of  the  horrible  scene  at  noon  on  the  2d  of  October 
I  shall  say  very  little.  A  too  early  death  never  took 
from  earth  a  more  amiable  and  accomplished  soldier. 
I  asked  and  had  leave  to  stand  by  the  door  as  he 
came  out.  He  paused,  very  white  in  his  scarlet  coat, 
smiled,  and  said,  "Thank  you,  Wynne;  God  bless 
you ! "  and  went  on,  recognising  with  a  bow  the 
members  of  the  court,  and  so  with  a  firm  step  to  his 
ignoble  death.  As  I  had  promised,  I  fell  in  behmd 
the  sad  procession  to  the  top  of  the  hill.    No  fairer 


Hugh  \\'^vnne  :  Free  Quaker     469 

scenj  could  a  man  look  upon  for  bis  last  of  earth. 
A  Icng  raoge  of  hilk  rose  tc  the  nor^lnvard.  On 
all  si'les  D'^ar  taid  far,  was  ^L'  ole?"  jOur  ot  tlv 
autumu-tinted  woods,  and  to  west  the  land  swejit 
downward  i)ast  the  headquarters  to  whei-e  the  elitTs 
rose  above  the  Hudson.  I  <an  see  it  all  now— the 
loveliness  of  nature,  the  waitiiig  thousands,  mute  and 
pitiful.  I  shut  ray  eyes  and  prayed  for  this  passing 
soul.  A  di'athfid  stillness  came  upon  the  assembled 
multitude.  I  heard  Colonel  Seammel  read  the  sen- 
tence. Then  there  was  the  rumble  of  the  cart,  a  low 
murmur  broke  forth,  and  the  sound  of  moving  steps 
was  heard.  It  was  over.  The  great  assemblage  of 
farmers  and  soldiers  went  away  strangely  silent,  and 
many  in  tears. 

The  effort  I  so  earnestly  desired  to  make  for  the 
capture  of  Aniold  was  afterward  made  by  Sergeant 
Cliampe,  but  failed,  as  all  men  now  know.  Yet  I  am 
honestly  of  opinion  that  I  should  have  succeeded. 

Years  afterward  T  was  walking  along  the  Strand 
in  London;  when,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  man  and 
woman  approaching.  It  was  Arnold  with  his  wife. 
His  faee  was  thin  and  wasted,  a  countenance  writ 
over  with  gloom  and  disappointment.  His  masculine 
vigour  was  gone.  Cain  could  have  borne  no  plainer 
marks  of  vain  remorse.  He  looked  straight  liefore 
jiiin.  As  I  crossed  the  way,  with  no  desire  to  meet 
him,  I  saw  the  woman  look  up  at  him,  a  strange, 
melancholy  sweetness  in  the  pale,  worn  face  of  our 
ouce  beautiful  Margaret.   Her  love  was  all  that  time 


470      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

had  left  liim;  poor,  broken,  shunned,  insulted,  he  was 
fast  going  to  his  grave.  Where  now  he  lies  I  know 
not.  Did  he  repent  with  bitter  tears  on  that  gentle 
breast?  God  only  knows,  I  walked  on  through  the 
crowded  street,  and  thought  of  the  words  of  my  great 
chief,  "  There  is  a  God  who  punishes  the  traitor." 


XXVI 

HE  long  winter  of  1780  and  1781,  with  its 
rliansreful  fortunes  in  the  South,  went 
by  ^^^thout  alteration  in  mine.  There 
were  constant  alarms,  and  leaves  of 
absence  were  not  to  be  had.  We  drilled 
our  men,  marched  hither  and  thither,  and  criticised 
our  leaders  over  the  winter  camp-fires,  en\'ying  the 
men  who,  under  Williams,  Marion,  and  Morgan,  were 
weeping  my  Lord  Cornwallis  uncomfortably  busy  in 
the  Carolinas.  By  the  end  of  January  we  knew  with 
joy  of  the  thrashing  Tarleton  got  at  the  Co^^ens, 
and  at  last,  in  April,  of  the  fight  at  Guilford.  It 
began  to  dawn  on  the  wiseacres  of  the  camp-fires  why 
we  were  now  here  and  now  there  In  fact,  we  were 
no  sooner  hutted  than  we  were  on  the  march,  if  there 
were  but  the  least  excuse  in  the  way  of  a  bit  of  open 
weather,  or  a  Tor\'  raid. 

Sir  Honr\'  was  k('j>t  in  doubt  as  to  whether  our 
chief  meant  for  New  York  from  the  north  or  from 
Jersey,  and  wlu-ii  at  last  lie  began  to  suspect  t'lat  it 
was  not  a  city  but  an  army  which  he  inteuded  to 
strike,  it  was  too  late.  Our  l)ia\  u  old  hawk,  so  long 
half  asleep,  as  it  looked,  had  begun  to  flutter  his 
wings,  and  to  contemplate  one  of  tliose  sudden  swoops 


472      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

upon  his  prey  wliicli  did  to  me  attest  the  soldier  of 
genius  within  this  patient,  ceremonious  gentleman. 
He  was  fast  learning  the  art  of  war. 

At  last,  as  I  have  said,  even  we  who  were  but 
simple  pawns  in  the  game  of  empire  knew  in  a  mea- 
sui-e  why  we  had  been  thus  used  to  bother  and  detain 
this  unlucky  Sir  Henry,  who  had  failed  to  help  Bur- 
goyne,  and  was  now  being  well  fooled  again,  to  the 
ruin  of  Lord  Cornwallis. 

But  all  of  this  was  chiefly  in  the  spring.  The  winter 
up  to  February  was  sad  enough  in  our  waiting  camps, 
what  with  low  diet,  desertions,  mutinies,  and  the 
typhus  fever,  which  cost  us  many  more  men  than 
we  lost  in  battle.  It  brought  us  at  last  one  day  the 
pleasure  of  a  visit  from  the  great  physician,  Benjamin 
Rush,  now  come  to  Morristown  to  see  after  the  sick, 
who  were  many. 

This  gentleman  was  a  prime  favourite  with  my  Aunt 
Gainor,  although  they  had  but  one  opinion  in  com- 
mon, and  fought  and  scratched  like  the  far-famed 
Irish  cats.  I  think,  too,  the  doctor  liked  your  humble 
servant,  chiefly  because  I  admired  and  reverenced 
him  for  his  learning  and  his  unflinching  love  of  his 
country. 

At  this  time  we  lay  about  Morristown  in  New 
Jersey.  There  was  to  be  a  great  ball  on  the  night  of 
the  doctor's  arrival.  And  just  now,  when  his  delicate 
features  appeared  at  the  door  of  our  hut,  Jack  and  I 
— for  Jack  was  with  me  for  a  day— had  used  the 
last  of  our  flour  to  powder  our  hair,  and  Jack  was 
carefully  tying  my  queue. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      473 

"Good-evening:,  ]\Iaster  Hugh,  and  you,  John 
"VTarder.     Ciui  I  have  a  bite?'' 

"\^'e  gave  a  shout  of  welcome,  and  offered  him  a 
herring— veiy  dried  it  was— and  one  of  Master  Baker 
Ludwick's  luird  biscuits.  He  said  we  were  luxm-ious 
scamps  with  our  powder,  until  we  explained  it  to  be 
the  end  of  a  rather  mouldy  bag  of  meal.  He  thought 
powdering  a  fine  custom  for  young  doctors,  for  it 
gave  them  a  look  of  gray  hair  and  wisdom ;  and  he 
was,  as  usual,  amusing,  eynied,  and  at  times  bitter. 

"\\'hen  we  were  seated  and  had  his  leave  for  a  pipe, 
he  told  us  there  was  now  constant  good  news  from 
the  South,  and  that  General  Greene  seemed  to  be 
somehow  doing  well,  losing  fights  and  winning 
strategetic  victories.  Probably  it  was  more  by  luck 
than  genius.  By  and  by  Gates  would  be  heard  from, 
and  then  we  should  see.  On  which  my  uauglity  Jack 
winked  at  me  through  the  fog  of  his  pipe  smoke. 

'•  And  why,"  said  the  doctor,  '*  does  your  general 
keep  so  qui*?t  ?     Was  an  array  made  to  sit  still  ? " 

I  could  not  but  remind  him  that  the  only  lucky 
winter  campaign  of  the  war  had  been  made  by  his 
Excellency,  and  that  it  was  not  usually  possible  to 
fight  in  the  cold  season  ;  not  even  Marlborough  could 
do  that.     I  was  mo.st  respectful,  you  may  be  sure. 

He  assured  me  that  our  general  would  never  end 
the  war;  for  in  revolutions  it  was  not  thev  who  be- 
gan  them  who  ever  did  bring  them  to  auspicious 
ocmclu.sions.  Our  general,  the  doctor  went  on  to  tell 
us,  was  a  weak  man,  and  soon  all  woidd  be  of  this 
opinion. 


474  -    Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


As  lie  spoke  I  saw  Hamiltou  in  the  doorway,  and 
I  made  haste  to  present  him  to  the  doctor. 

The  young  aide  said  modestly  that  he  must  venture 
to  differ  as  to  our  chief.  He  was  a  man  dull  in  talk, 
not  entertaining,  given  to  cautious  silence,  but  surely 
not  weak,  only  slow  in  judgment,  although  most  de- 
cisive in  action. 

"  No  great  soldier,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  never 
will  be." 

"  He  is  learning  the  business,  like  the  rest  of  us, 
Dr.  Rush.  'T  is  a  hard  school,  sir,  but  it  is  character 
that  wins  at  last ;  may  I  venture  to  say  this  man  has 
character,  and  can  restrain  both  his  tongue  and  his 
own  nature,  which  is  quick  to  wrath," 

"  Nonsense !  "  cried  the  doctor.  ''  The  whole  coun- 
try is  discontented.  We  should  elect  a  commander- 
in-chief  once  a  year." 

In  fact,  many  were  of  this  strange  opinion.  Ham- 
ilton smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 

I  saw  Jack  flush,  and  I  shook  my  head  at  him.  I 
thought  what  was  said  foolish  and  ignorant,  but  it 
became  not  men  as  young  as  we  to  contradict  the 
doctor.  It  was  Rush  who,  in  77,  with  Adams  and 
others,  sustained  Gates,  and  put  him  in  the  Board 
of  War,  to  the  bewilderment  of  affairs.  How  deep 
he  was  in  the  scheme  of  that  officer  and  Conway 
and  Lee  to  displace  our  chief  none  know.  My  aunt 
insists  he  had  naught  to  do  with  it.  He  was  an 
honourable,  honest  man,  but  he  was  also  a  good, 
permanent  hater,  and  sustained  his  hatreds  with  a 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      475 

fine  escort  of  rancorous  words,  where  Jack  or  I  would 
have  been  profane  and  brief. 

The  cabal  broke  up  with  Lee's  trial,  and  when 
Cadwalader  shot  Conway  through  the  mouth,  and, 

as  he  said,  stopped  one  d lying  tongue,  it  did  not 

change  our  doctor's  ^'iews.  When  he  and  Dr.  Ship- 
pen,  who  was  no  Tory  like  the  rest  of  his  family, 
quaiTolled,  as  all  doctors  do,  Rush  preferred  charges, 
and  was  disgusted  because  his  Excellency  approved 
tlie  acquittal  ^nth  some  not  very  agreeable  comments. 
I  tliink  he  never  forgave  the  slight,  but  yet  I  liked 
him,  and  shall  ever  revere  his  momorv  as  that  of  a 
man  who  deserved  well  of  his  countrv,  and  had  the 
noble  courage  of  liis  profession,  as  he  showed  amply 
in  the  great  yellow-fever  plague  of  '93. 

Ht*  told  me  of  mv  father  as  still  much  the  same, 
and  of  my  Aunt  Oainor,  and  of  Darthea,  who,  he 
thought,  was  troulilod  in  mind,  although  why  he 
knew  not.  She  had  long  since  ceased  answering  the 
messages  we  sent  her  through  my  aunt.  Mr.  Warder, 
he  told  me  later,  had  given  up  hi-;  suit  to  Madam 
Peni.ston,  and  was  now  an  oiTtspoken  Wliig.  The 
lady  was  disposed  to  seek  refuge  again  with  her  De 
Lancey  cousins  in  New  York,  but  Darthea  was  ob- 
stinate, and  not  to  be  moved.  And  so  we  got  all  the 
gos.sip  of  our  okl  town,  and  hoard  of  Mrs.  Arnohl's 
having  been  ordered  to  leave,  and  of  how  the  doctor, 
like  our  own  Wayne,  had  alwavs  distrusted  her  hus- 
band. Indeed,  we  had  a.sked  a  thousand  questions 
before  we  let  the  doctor  get  to  my  bed,  and  we  our- 


47^      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

selves,  pulling  on  onr  sherry- vallies,  a  kind  of  over- 
alls, to  protect  our  silk  stockings  from  the  mud,  were 
away  to  the  baU. 

Despite  our  many  cares  and  former  low  diet,  we 
danced  till  late  in  the  night;  the  good  people  of 
Morristown  contriving,  I  know  not  how,  to  give  us 
such  a  supper  as  we  had  not  had  for  many  a  day.  I 
had  the  pleasure  to  converse,  in  their  own  tongue, 
with  Comte  de  Roehambeau  and  the  Due  de  Lauzun, 
who  made  me  many  comphments  on  my  accent,  and 
brought  back  to  me,  in  this  bright  scene,  the  thought 
of  her  to  whom  I  owed  this  and  all  else  of  what  is 
best  in  me. 

It  was  indeed  a  gay  and  pleasant  evening.  Even 
our  general  seemed  to  forget  the  anxieties  of  war, 
and  walked  a  minuet  with  Lady  Stirhng,  and  then 
with  Mrs.  Greene.  Very  quiet  and  courteous  he  was, 
but  not  greatly  interested,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me. 

Again  in  May  we  were  in  motion,  now  here,  now 
there ;  and,  with  a  skirmish  or  two,  the  summer  was 
upon  us.  Meanwhile,  as  I  have  said,  things  went 
more  happily  in  the  South. 

Greene,  continually  beaten,  was  ever  a  better  sol- 
dier; and  at  last,  early  in  this  summer  of  '81,  my 
Lord  Cornwallis,  driven  to  despair  by  incessant  foes 
who  led  him  a  wearisome  and  fruitless  chase  through 
States  not  rich  enough  to  feed  him,  turned  from  the 
"boy"  Lafayette  he  so  much  despised,  and  finally 
sought  rest  and  supplies  on  the  seaboard  at  York- 
town,  while  the  "  boy  general,"  planted  in  a  position 
to  command  the  peninsula  at  Malvern  Hill,  sat  down 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      477 

to  intrench  and  watch  the  older  nobleman.  I  have  no 
wish  to  write  more  history  than  is  involved  in  my  own 
humble  fortunes,  and  I  must  leave  those  for  whom 
I  ^\Tite  these  memoirs  to  read  the  story  of  the  war 
on  other  pacres  than  mine.  Enough  to  say  that  when 
his  Excellency  was  sm*e  of  the  French  fleet  and  knew 
of  liis  lordship's  position,  he  made  one  of  those  swift 
decisions  which  contrasted  strangely  with  his  patient, 
and  even  elaborate,  businesslike  fashion  of  attending 
to  all  the  minor  affairs  of  life.  Nor  less  secret  and 
subtle  was  the  way  in  which  he  carried  out  his  plan 
of  action.  Leaving  a  force  at  West  Point,  he  swept 
in  haste  through  the  Jerseys. 

Even  the  generals  in  immediate  command  knew 
notliing  of  his  real  intention  until  vre  were  turned 
southward  and  hurried  through  the  middle  colonies. 
Then  all  men  knew  and  wondered  at  the  daring,  and, 
as  some  thought,  the  rashness  of  this  movement. 
Sir  Henry  had  been  well  fooled  to  the  end,  for  now 
it  was  far  on  in  August. 

At  Trenton  I  received  an  appointment  which  much 
amazed  me.  The  army  of  our  allies  was  marching 
with  us.  De  Grasse,  with  a  great  fleet,  was  off  Chesa- 
peake Bay ;  despatches  were  coming  and  going  daily. 
His  Excellency  had  little  knowledge  of  the  French 
tongue,  and  had  suffered  for  it  in  his  youth.  P.Ir. 
Duponceau,  of  the  Marquis  de  Lafayette's  staff,  was 
competent  in  both  French  and  English,  but,  save  one 
other  officer,  no  one  of  his  Excellency's  staff  spoke 
and  wrote  French  well ;  and  this  aide  was,  as  a  con- 
sequence, much  overworked. 


4/8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

Seeing  this  difficulty,  whicli  occasioned  much  con- 
fusion, the  Due  de  Lauzun  suggested  that  I  be  asked 
to  serve  as  a  special  aide-de-camp.  I  believe  I  owed 
this  chance,  in  part,  to  Lafayette,  and  also  to  the  fact, 
stated  elsewhere,  that  I  had  had  the  fortune  to  be 
presented  to  the  duke  at  oui'  famous  ball  in  Morris- 
town,  where  he  was  pleased  to  talk  with  me  in 
French. 

My  appointment  reached  me  on  August  29.  His 
Excellency  was  then  with  us  at  Trenton,  despatching 
couriers,  urging  haste,  and  filling  all  men  with  the 
great  hope  which  his  audacious  action  excited. 

I  was  ordered  to  turn  over  my  command,  to  join 
his  Excellency's  headquarters  staff  at  Philadelphia, 
and  there  to  report  to  Colonel  Tilghman  as  extra  aido- 
de-camp  with  the  brevet  rank  of  lieutenant-colonel. 
A  note  from  Hamilton,  now  with  his  regiment,  con- 
gratulated me,  and  related  the  cause  of  my  unlooked- 
for  promotion, 

"Would  you  see  what  my  lifelong  friend  Jack  had 
to  say? 

"I  thank  God  for  the  happy  fortune  which  has 
again  fallen  to  Hugh.  Had  it  not  been  for  his  as- 
siduity in  youth,  and  the  love  and  respect  he  bore 
his  mother,  he  would  never  have  come  by  this  pro- 
motion. Thus  God  rewards  us  for  that  we  do  "wdthout 
thought  of  profit."  Alas  !  my  dear  Jack,  those  French 
lessons  were  sometimes  but  ungratefully  learned. 

Early  on  September  2,  ha\ing  boiTOwed  a  horse 
from  one  of  the  staff,  I  was  ferried  over  the  Delaware, 
and,  once  across  the  river,  pushed  on  in  haste  to  my 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      479 

own  dear.  city.  I  found  the  French  abont  to  enter 
the  toyra, 

I  had  left  home  in  1777  a  raw  vouth,  and  it  was 
not  without  a  sense  of  just  pride  that  I  returned  a 
lieutenant-colonel  at  twenty-eight,  having,  as  I  felt, 
done  my  country  honest  service. 

Our  allies  halted  in  the  suburbs  to  clean  off  the 
dust,  and  as  they  began  their  march  I  fell  in  beside 
De  Lauzuii.  They  made  a  T)rilliant  show  in  neat 
white  uniforms,  colours  flying  and  bands  playing. 
Front  street  was  densely  crowded,  and  at  Vine  they 
turned  westward  to  camp  on  the  common  at  Centre 
Square.  As  they  wheeled  I  ])owed  to  the  French 
gentlemen,  and  kept  on  down  Front  street  to  Arch, 
soon  halting  before  my  aunt's  door.  The  house  was 
closed.  All  had  gone  forth  to  welcome  the  marcliing 
troops.  I  mounted  again  and  rode  down  Second 
street  to  my  own  home,  left  my  horse  at  the  stable, 
and,  seeing  no  one,  passed  into  the  sitting-room.  My 
father  was  seated  at  the  open  window,  but  to  see  him 
dismaved  me.  He  rose  with  an  uneasv  look  as  I 
went  toward  him.  lie  was  so  wasted  that  his  large 
features  stood  out  gauut  and  prominent.  His  clothes 
hung  about  him  in  folds,  and  his  vast,  bony  frame 
was  like  a  rack  from  which  thev  seemed  readv  to  fall. 

I  caught  him  in  my  arms,  and  kissed  his  shrunken 
cheeks,  utterly  overcome  at  the  sight  of  this  sj)lendid 
body  in  ruins.  Moanwhile  he  stayed  quite  passive, 
and  at  last  pnslied  me  off  and  looked  at  me  steadily. 

*'  It  is  Hugh,"  he  said.  "  Thy  mother  will  be  glad 
to  see  thee." 


480      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  was  shocked.  This  dehision  of  my  mother's 
being  alive  greatly  increased  the  grief  I  had  in  seeing 
this  wreck  of  a  strong,  masterful  man. 

I  said  something,  I  hardly  know  what.  He  re- 
peated, "  Thy  mother  will  be  glad  to  see  thee.  She 
is  upstairs— upstairs.  She  is  with  thy  little  sister. 
Ellin  has  been  troublesome  in  the  night." 

After  this  he  sat  down  and  took  no  more  notice 
of  me.  I  stood  watching  him.  The  dead  alone  seemed 
to  be  alive  to  him :  my  mother,  and  the  little  sister 
who  died  thirty  years  back,  and  whose  name  I  heard 
now  from  my  father  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  life. 
As  I  stood  amazed  and  disturbed  at  these  resurrec- 
tions, he  sat  speechless,  either  looking  out  of  the 
window  in  a  dull  way,  or  now  and  then  at  me  with 
no  larger  interest.  At  last,  with  some  difficulty 
as  to  finding  words,  he  said : ''  Thy  mother  wearies 
for  thy  letters.  Thou  hast  been  remiss  not  to 
write." 

I  said  I  had  written  him,  as  indeed  I  had,  and  with 
regularity,  but  with  never  an  answer.  After  this  he 
was  long  silent,  and  then  said,  ''  I  told  her  it  was  but 
for  a  week  thou  wert  to  be  away.  She  thinks  it 
more."  The  long  years  of  war  were  lost  to  him,  and 
as  though  they  had  not  been. 

I  made  a  vain  effort  to  recall  him  to  the  present 
and  the  living,  telling  him  of  the  army  and  the  war, 
and  at  last  asked  news  of  my  aunt.  He  soon  ceased 
to  hear  me,  and  his  great  head  fell  forward,  the  gray 
locks  dropping  over  his  forehead,  as  he  sat  breathing 
deeply  and  long. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      481 

I  found  it  a  som-  spectacle,  and  after  gi\ing  some 
ordt-rs  to  Tom  I  went  away. 

I  leai'ued  later  that  my  father  never  went  out, 
but  sat  at  the  window  all  day  with  his  pipe,  drawing 
on  it  as  if  it  were  lighted,  and  heeding  neither  the 
friends  who  still  came  to  see  him  nor  the  vacant  days 
which  went  by.  I  had  lost  my  father,  even  that  little 
of  his  true  self  he  had  let  me  see. 

I  went  thence  and  reported  to  Colonel  Tilghman 
at  the  City  Tavern,  where  his  Excellency  had  alighted, 
and  after  performing  that  duty  made  haste  to  see 
my  aunt. 

There  I  foimd  the  love  and  tender  welcome  for 
which  I  so  much  yearned,  and  I  also  had  news  of 
Darthea.  She,  my  aunt  said,  was  well  and  still  in 
the  city,  but  out  of  spirits;  as  to  that  "villain,"  my 
cousin,  my  Aimt  Gainor  knew  nothing,  nor  indeed 
Mistress  Peniston  much.  Letters  were  difficult  to 
get  through  our  lines,  and  if  he  or  Darthea  still  wrote, 
my  aunt  knew  no  more  than  I.  Wlien  I  told  her  in 
confidence  of  the  errand  on  which,  at  my  cousin's 
prompting,  General  Arnold  had  sent  me,  she  ex- 
clauned : 

"  Could  he  have  wished  to  get  you  into  trouble  ? 
It  seems  incredible,  Hugh.  I  hope  you  may  never 
meet." 

"Aunt  Gainor,"  said  I,  "to  meet  that  man  is  the 
dearest  wish  of  my  life." 

"  The  dearest  ? '' 

"  Not  quite,"  said  I,  "  but  it  yriR  be  for  me  a  happy 
hour." 


482      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  Then  God  forbid  it,  Hugh  j  and  it  is  most  unlikely. 
You  must  go  and  see  Darthea.  1  suppose  you  wiU 
hardly  tarry  here  long— and  get  your  epaulets,  sir. 
I  want  to  see  my  boy  in  his  uniform.  Bring  Mr. 
Hamilton  here,  and  the  French  gentlemen.  Fetch 
some  of  them  to  dinner  to-moiTow." 

Then  she  kissed  me  again,  and  told  me  how  strong 
and  well  I  looked,  and  so  on,  with  all  the  kind  pret- 
tiness  of  affectionate  speech  women  keep  for  those 
they  love. 

As  I  knew  not  when  we  should  leave,  nor  how 
busy  I  might  be  while  still  in  the  city,  I  thought  it 
well  to  talk  to  my  aunt  of  my  father's  sad  condi- 
tion, and  of  some  other  matters  of  moment.  Of  the 
deed  so  strangely  come  into  my  possession  she  also 
spoke.  It  seemed  to  be  much  on  her  mind.  I  still 
told  her  I  cared  little  for  the  Welsh  lands,  and  this 
was  true.  Nevertheless  I  discovered  in  myself  no 
desire  to  be  pleasant  to  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne,  and  I 
began  to  suspect  with  my  aunt  that  more  than  Dar- 
thea, or  stupid  jealousy,  or  the  memory  of  a  blow, 
might  be  at  the  bottom  of  his  disposition  to  injure  me. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  those  who  read  what  a 
quiet  old  fellow  writes,  that  I  should  so  frankly  con- 
fess my  hatred  of  my  cousin.  Nowadays  men  He 
about  one  another,  and  stab  with  words,  and  no  one 
resents  it.  Is  the  power  to  hate  to  the  death  fading 
out  ?  and  are  we  the  better  for  this  ?  It  may  be  so. 
Think  of  the  weary  months  in  jail,  of  starvation, 
insult,  and  the  miseries  of  cold,  raggedness,  filth,  and 
fever.     Think,  too,  of  my  father  set  against  me,  of 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      483 

the  Mischianza  business,— but  for  that  I  blame  him 
not,— aud,  last,  of  his  involving  me  in  the  \'ile  net  of 
Arnold's  treason.  I  could  as  soon  forgive  a  snake 
that  had  bit  me  as  tliis  reptile. 

*'Mi'.  Jjunes  Wilson  has  the  deed,"  said  my  aunt; 
"and  of  that  we  shall  learn  more  when  Mr.  Corn- 
wallis  is  took,  and  you  come  home  a  general.  And 
now  go  and  see  Darthea,  and  let  me  hear  how  many 
will  be  to  dine,  and  send  me,  too,  a  half-dozen  of 
good  old  -vNine  from  my  brother's  cellar— the  old 
"Wynne  Madeira.  Decant  it  with  care,  and  don't 
trust  that  black  animal  Tom.  '  Mind,  sir !  " 

Darthea  lived  but  a  little  way  from  my  aunt's,  and 
with  my  heart  knocking  at  my  ribs  as  it  never  had 
done  at  sight  of  levelled  muskets,  I  found  my  way 
into  Mistress  Peniston's  parlour,  and  waited,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  an  age. 

It  was  a  large  back  room  with  an  open  fireplace 
and  high-backed  chairs,  daw-toed  tables  l)are  of 
books  or  china,  with  the  floor  polished  like  glass. 
Penistons  and  De  Lanceys,  in  hoop  and  hood,  and 
liberal  of  neck  and  bosom,  looked  down  on  me.  It 
was  all  stiff  and  formal,  but  to  me  pleasantly  familiar. 
Would  she  nevor  come? 

Tlien  I  heard  a  slow  step  on  the  stair,  and  the  rustle 
of  skirts,  and  here  was  Darthea,  pale  and  grave,  but 
more  full  in  bud,  and,  I  thought,  more  lovely  in  her 
maturing  womanhood. 

She  paused  at  the  doorway,  and  made  as  it  were 
to  greet  me  witli  a  formal  curtsey,  but  then— how 
like  her  it  did  seem  !— ran  forward  and  gave  me  both 


4.84      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

her  hands,  saying :  "  You  are  welcome,  Mr.  Wjoine. 
I  am  most  glad  to  see  you.  You  are  all  for  the 
South,  I  hear.     Is  it  not  so  ? " 

I  said  yes,  and  how  delightful  it  was  to  be  here  if 
but  for  a  day  or  two ;  and  then,  being  pretty  vain, 
must  tell  her  of  my  good  fortune. 

"  I  am  glad  of  my  friend's  success,  but  I  wish  it 
were  with  the  other  side.  Oh,  I  am  a  mighty  Tory 
yet,"  shaking  her  head.  "I  have  seen  your  Mr. 
Washington.  What  a  fine  man !  and  favours  Mr. 
Arnold  a  trifle." 

"  Fie  for  shame !  "  said  I,  pleased  to  see  her  merry ; 
and  then  I  went  on  to  tell  her  the  sad  story  of  Andre, 
but  not  of  what  he  told  me  concerning  Arthur.  The 
tears  came  to  her  eyes,  although  of  course  it  was  no 
new  tale,  and  she  went  white  again,  so  that  I  would 
have  turned  the  talk  aside,  but  she  stopped  me,  and, 
hesitating  a  little,  said : 

"Did  that  miserable  treachery  begin  when  Mr. 
Arnold  was  in  the  town?" 

I  said  it  was  thought  to  have  done  so.  For  my 
own  part,  I  believed  it  began  here,  but  just  when  I 
could  not  say.  "But  why  do  you  ask?"  I  added, 
being  for  a  reason  curious. 

For  a  little  she  sat  still,  her  hands,  in  delicate  white 
lace  mittens,  on  her  lap.  Then  she  spoke,  at  first  not 
looking  up.  "  Men  are  strange  to  me,  Mr.  Wynne. 
I  suppose  in  war  they  must  do  things  which  in  peace 
would  be  shameful." 

I  said  yes,  and  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  divined 
that  Arthur  had  been  deep  in  that  wretched  plot.     I 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      485 

do  not  know  to  this  day.  She  kept  her  counsel  if 
she  did.  Women  see  through  us  at  times  as  if  we 
were  ghiss,  and  theu  again  ai'e  caught  by  a  man-trap 
that  one  woidd  think  uuist  be  perfectly  visible. 

"  And  was  poor  Peggy  Shippen  in  it  ? " 

"Oh,  no  !  no ! "  I  replied. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  but  had  I  been  she,  I  woidd 
never  have  seen  him  again— never !  never !  To  think 
of  life  A\'ith  one  who  is  as  black  a  creatm-e  as  that 
man  I  "* 

''  But,  after  idl,  he  is  her  husband."  I  wanted  to 
see  what  she  woidd  say. 

"Her  husband!  Yes.  But  a  husband  without 
honour !  No !  no !  I  should  have  to  respect  the  man 
I  loved,  or  love  would  be  dead— dead  !  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  Poor  Peggy  !  Must  you  go  ? " 
she  added,  as  I  rose.  "  Tliis  horrid  war !  We  may 
never  meet  again."  And  then  quickly,  "How  is 
Captain  Bhi.shes,  and  shall  we  see  him  too?" 

I  tliought  not.  Already  the  army  was  making 
for  Chester,  and  so  toward  the  Head  of  Elk,  "  No ; 
I  mu.st  go."     On  this  .she  rose. 

"  Is  it  the  same,  Darthea,  and  am  I  to  go  away  with 
no  more  hope  than  the  years  have  brought  me  ? " 

"  Why,"  she  said,  colouring,  "  do  you  make  it  so 
hard  for  me— your  friend?" 

"Do  I  make  it  hard?" 

"  Yes.  I  used  to  say  no  to  men,  and  think  no  more 
of  the  thing  or  of  them,  but  I  am  tr«)ul)l('d  ;  and  tliis 
awful  war  !  I  am  gi-owii  (jkh'r,  and  to  hurt  a  man  — a 
man  hke  you  — gives  me  pain  as  it  did  not  use  to  do." 


486      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"But  you  have  not  said  no,"  said  I ;  "  and  I  am  an 
obstinate  man." 

"  Why  will  you  force  me  to  say  no  ?  Why  should 
I?  You  know  well  enough  what  I  think  and  feel. 
Why  insist  that  I  put  it  in  words  ?  It  were  kinder 
— not  to  ui'ge  me." 

It  seemed  a  strange  speech.  I  said  I  did  not 
understand  her. 

"  Then  you  had  better  go.  I  am  engaged  to  Mr. 
Arthur  Wynne,  sir.  I  have  had  no  word  of  him  for 
a  year,  and  can  get  no  letter  to  him." 

I  might  have  given  her  Miss  Franks's  letter,  and 
poured  out  to  her  the  story  of  his  treachery  and 
baseness.  I  may  have  been  wrong,  but  something 
in  me  forbade  it,  and  I  preferred  to  wait  yet  longer. 

'^  Shall  I  get  you  a  letter  through  the  lines  ?  I 
can." 

"You  are  a  strange  man,  Mr.  Wynne,  and  an 
honest  gentleman.  No,  you  cannot  do  me  this  ser- 
vice.    I  thank  you." 

"  Then  good-by ;  and  it  is  love  to  the  end,  Darthea." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go,"  she  said  faintly. 

*'  Good-by,"  I  repeated,  and  rose. 

"  Come  and  see  me  some  day  when  you  can,— not 
now,  not  this  time,— and  do  not  think  ill  of  me." 

"  Think  iU  of  you !     Why  should  I  ? " 

"Yes!  yes!" 

I  did  not  understand  her,  but  I  saw  that  she  was 
shaken  by  some  great  emotion.     Then  she  spoke  : 

"  I  have  given  my  word,  Mr.  Wynne,  and  I  do  not 
lightly  break  it.     Perhaps,  like  some  men,  you  may 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      487 

think  that  women  have  no  such  sense  of  honour  as 
men  beUeve  to  be  tlieii*s." 

"  But  do  you  love  him,  Darthea  1 " 

"  He  is  not  here  to  answer  you/'  she  cried,  looking 
up  at  me  steadily,  her  eyes  ablaze.  "Nor  will  I. 
You  have  no  right  to  question  me  — none!" 

"  I  have  every  right,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  will  you  never  go  away  1 "  And  she  stamped 
one  little  foot  impatiently.  ''  If  you  don't  go  I  shall 
hate  you,  and  I— I  don't  want  to  hate  you,  Hugh 
Wynne." 

I  stood  a  moment,  and  once  more  the  temptation 
to  tell  her  all  I  knew  was  sti'ong  upon  me,  but,  as 
she  said,  Arthur  was  not  hero  ;  first  I  must  tell  him 
face  to  face,  and  after  that  God  alone  knew  what 
might  come.  I  must  tell  him,  too,  with  such  proof 
as  neither  her  love  nor  his  subtlety  could  gainsay. 
And  when  this  hour  came — what  then  ?  If  I  killed 
him, — and  I  meant  to, — what  of  Darthea?  That 
would  end  my  slender  chance,  and  yet  I  knew  myself 
so  surely  as  to  be  certain  that,  when  the  hour  came, 
no  human  consideration  would  be  listened  to  for  a 
moment.  I  could  hate  in  those  days,  and  I  did.  If 
I  had  had  the  assured  love  of  Darthea,  I  should  per- 
haps have  hesitated  ;  but  not  having  it,  I  only  longed 
once  to  have  that  man  at  the  point  of  the  sword.  It 
is  all  very  savage  and  brutal,  but  in  those  my  young 
days  men  loved  and  hated  as  I  do  not  think  they  do 
of  late.  It  was  a  strong  and  a  chok'ric  generation, 
l»ut  we  did  some  things  for  which  the  world  should 
thank  us. 


XXVII 

Y  the  7th  of  September  Marquis  Lafayette 
was  holding  the  neck  of  the  peninsula  of 
York.  A  more  daring  man  than  Corn- 
wallis  would  have  tried  a  fall  with  this 
army,  but  he  waited  for  a  fleet  to  relieve 
him,  and  behold !  none  came  save  that  of  De  Grasse. 
By  September  26  sixteen  thousand  men  were  added 
to  those  of  the  marquis,  and  lay  about  Williamsburg. 
Our  quiet  old  hawk  had  my  lord  in  his  clutches,  and 
meant  no  long  delay. 

Not  to  be  in  advance  of  the  army,  his  Excellency, 
who  left  Philadelphia  before  us,  lingered  a  few  days 
on  the  way  to  visit  the  home  he  had  not  seen  for  six 
long  years,  and  we  of  the  staff  followed  him  the  day 
after.  Both  in  town  and  on  the  march  through  Del- 
aware I  was  occupied  as  I  had  never  been  in  my  life. 
The  French  marched  with  us,  and  to  keep  things 
straight  duplicate  orders  in  both  tongues  were 
needed,  and  there  were  notes,  letters,  and  despatches 
to  be  done  into  French  or  English.  An  aide  who 
spoke  French  fluently  was  apt  to  be  in  the  saddle 
whenever  his  pen  was  not  in  use. 

The  Hfe  was  to  me  of  advantage,  because  I  came 
daily  into  contact  with  officers,  young  and  old,  who 

488 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      489 

had  seen  the  finest  company  in  Europe,  and  from 
whom  there  was  much  to  learn.  It  is  Chastellux,  I 
think,  who  has  said  that  Mr.  Washington  possessed 
the  charm  of  such  manners  as  were  rai-e  among  our 
officers.  With  these  gentlemen,  our  allies,  the  -way  of 
doing  every  Httle  act  of  the  life  of  society  seemed  to 
have  been  studied  and  taught,  until  these  gracious 
and  amiable  forms  were  become,  as  one  may  say,  a 
part  of  the  man. 

No  wonder  they  found  us  clumsy  fellows.  Too 
many  of  our  gentiy  were  not  in  the  wai-,  or  were 
opposed  to  it.  Many  regiments  were  strangely  of- 
ficered, and  this,  as  Graydon  says  in  his  memoirs, 
was  espeeiidly  the  case  as  to  the  Xew  England  troops. 
But  a  man  with  no  manntrs  and  with  brutal  habits 
may  fight  as  well  as  a  marquis. 

Now  toward  the  close  of  the  war,  if  we  were  still 
as  to  looks  but  a  Falstaffian  contingent,  the  material 
in  men  and  officers  had  been  notably  sifted,  and  was 
in  all  essential  ways  fit  for  the  perilous  service  to 
wliieh  we  were  about  to  address  ourselves. 

At  Blount  Vernon  we  camped— we  of  the  staff- 
in  and  out  of  the  house,  and  were  bountifidly  fed, 
nor  did  I  ever  see  his  Excellency  more  to  advantage 
than  here.  He  personally  looked  after  our  wants, 
and  lost  for  a  time  much  of  the  official  reserve  with 
which  he  guarded  himself  elsewhere. 

At  table  after  dinner  he  was  in  the  habit  of  asking 
one  of  his  aides  to  propose  toa.sts  for  him.  The  day 
before  we  left,  as  we  were  about  to  rise  from  talkie. 
Colonel  Tilghuian  said,  "  One  more  toast,  with  your 


49°      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

permission,  Excellency,"  and  cried  out,  "My  Lord 
Cornwallis,  and  may  he  enjoy  the  hospitalities  of 
our  army." 

Our  host  laughed  as  he  rarely  did,  saying,  "We 
must  first  catch  our  fish,  Mr.  Tilghman." 

I  ventured  to  say,  "He  is  in  the  net  already." 

His  Excellency,  looking  round  at  me,  said  gravely, 
"  Pray  God  the  net  hold  good !  "  After  I  had  offered 
the  toast  of  Lady  Washington's  health,  and  our 
thanks  for  the  pleasant  days  of  rest  and  good  cheer, 
he  left  us,  desiring  Mr.  Tilghman  to  see  that  we  had 
wine  enough. 

On  the  14th  we  reached  Williamsburg.  The  army 
rapidly  came  in  by  divisions,  French  and  American. 
Before  the  25th  we  had  from  the  fleet  cannon  and 
intrenching-tools,  and  all  our  available  force  was  to 
hand. 

I  can  make  clear  in  a  few  words  the  situation  of 
the  enemy.  The  peninsula  of  York  lies  between  the 
James  and  the  York  rivers.  On  the  south  bank  of 
the 'latter  sits  the  little  town  of  York.  Seven  re- 
doubts surrounded  it.  The  town  was  flanked  right 
and  left  by  deep  ravines  and  creeks  falhng  into  the 
York  River.  Intrenchments,  field-works,  and  abatis, 
with  felled  trees,  lay  to  landward. 

Gloucester  Point,  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river, 
was  well  fortified,  and  before  it  lay  a  small  force  of 
British  war-ships,  the  channel  being  obstructed  lower 
down  by  sunken  vessels.  The  French  fleet  held  the 
river  below  the  town,  and  we  the  peninsula. 

On  the  night  of  the  25th,  after  a  brief  visit  to  the 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      491 

fleet,  OTir  chief  lay  down  in  the  open  nnder  a  mnl- 
bL*rn,--tree  with  one  of  its  roots  for  a  pillow,  and  slept 
wt'Il,  as  was  audible  enough  to  uswho  lay  at  a  distance. 

That  night  his  lordship  abandoned  his  outworks 
and  drew  within  the  town.  We  seized  these  lines 
next  day,  losing  Colonel  Seammel,  formerly  of  the 
staff,  in  whose  amusing  songs  and  gay  talk  our  chief 
had  used  to  take  much  pleasure.  On  the  28th  the 
armies  marched  twelve  miles  down  the  peninsula, 
and  camped  two  miles  from  the  town,  driving  in  the 
pickets  and  some  parties  of  horse. 

By  October  1,  the  weather  being  fine,  we  had  com- 
pleted a  half -moon  of  ir.trenchments,  resting  at  each 
wing  on  the  river.  Two  advanced  redoubts  we  thi-ew 
up  were  severely  cannonaded,  so  as  to  interrupt  the 
men  at  work. 

His  Excellency,  somewhat  anxious,  came  out  of  his 
tent,  and  calling  Mr.  Tilghman  and  me,  who  were 
writing,  rode  forth,  followed  by  his  faithful  black 
Billy,  whom  we  used  to  credit  with  knowing  more  of 
what  went  on  tlian  did  we  of  the  staff.  ISIr.  Evans, 
a  chaplain,  was  fain  to  see  more  of  the  war  than  con- 
cerned him,  and  came  after  us.  As  we  approached, 
Billy,  riding  behind  me,  said  as  the  cannon-shot  went 
over  us : 

"  Dem  redcoats  is  p'intin'  us  mighty  well." 

Then  a  shot  riiiochetted,  striking  the  ground  in 
front  and  covering  us  with  dust.  Mr.  Evans,  who 
was  standing  by,  and  had  now  seen  quite  enough  of 
it,  said,  "Wo  sluill  all  be  killed,"  and  then  looked 
ruefully  at  his  new  beaver,  well  dusted  and  dirty. 


492      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

"  You  had  better  carry  that  home  to  your  wife  and 
childi'en,"  said  the  chief.  ''  This  is  not  the  place  for 
you,  sir." 

Neither  was  it  much  to  my  own  liking,  and  I  was 
not  sorry  when  we  rode  back. 

Ou  the  night  of  the  9th  of  October  his  Excellency 
put  a  match  to  the  first  gun,  and  for  four  days  and 
nights  a  furious  cannonade  went  on  from  both  sides. 

Late  on  the  night  of  the  10th  Jack  came  to  my 
tent,  and  we  walked  out  to  see  this  terrible  spectacle, 
climbing  a  little  hill  which  lay  well  away  from  our 
lines.     For  a  time  we  were  quite  alone. 

A  monstrous  dome  of  smoke  hung  over  the  town. 
Now  and  then  a  gust  of  sea  wind  tore  it  apart,  and 
through  the  rifts  we  saw  the  silver  cup  of  the  moon 
and  the  host  of  stars.  We  lay  long  on  the  hillock. 
I  suppose  the  hour  and  the  mighty  fates  involved 
made  us  serious  and  silent.  Far  away  seventy  can- 
non thundered  from  our  works,  and  the  enemy's 
batteries  roared  their  incessant  fury  of  reply. 

Presently  I  said,  "  Jack,  how  still  the  heavens  are, 
and  under  them  this  rage  of  war !     How  strange  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack  ;  "  once  I  said  something  of  this 
tranquilness  in  the  skies  to  our  great  Dr.  Frankhn. 
He  is  very  patient  with  young  fellows,  but  he  said 
to  me :  '  Yes,  it  is  a  pleasing  thing,  even  to  be  wrong 
about  it.  It  is  only  to  the  eye  of  man  that  there  is 
calm  and  peace  in  the  heavens ;  no  shot  of  cannon 
can  fly  as  these  worlds  fly,  and  comets  whirl,  and 
suns  blaze;  and  if  there  is  yonder,  as  with  us,  war 
and  murder  and  ravage,  none  can  say.'  It  all  comes 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      493 

w  

back  to  me  now,"  said  Jack,  "  and  I  thought  to  tell 
you." 

'•  It  is  a  terrible  sight,"  said  I,  as  the  gi-eat  tumult 
of  sound  grew  louder.  "  Let  us  thank  God  the  cause 
is  a  just  one." 

"  And  there  are  the  stai*s  again,"  said  Jack,  "  and 
the  moon."  And  we  were  silent  once  more,  watch- 
ing the  death-struggle  of  a  failing  cause. 

Our  own  mad  world  was  far  other  than  at  peace. 
The  great  bombs  rose  in  vast  ciu'ves  overhead,  with 
trails  of  light,  and,  seeming  to  hesitate  in  mid-air, 
exploded,  or  fell  on  town  or  ship  or  in  the  stream 
between.  As  we  looked,  awe-struck,  hot  shot  set  fii'e 
to  the  "Chai-on,"  a  forty-four-gun  ship,  nigh  to 
Gloucester,  and  soon  a  red  rush  of  fire  t"wining  about 
mast  and  spar  rose  in  air,  hghting  the  subhme  spec- 
tacle, amid  the  crash  of  guns,  the  rattle  of  musketry, 
and  multitudinous  iuexpUcable  noises,  through  which 
we  heard  now  and  then  the  wild  howl  of  a  dog  from 
some  distant  farm-yard. 

At  last  the  war-ship  blew  up,  and  a  wonderful 
strong  light  liglited  tlie  town,  the  river,  aud  the  camp. 
As  it  fell  the  dog  bayed  again,  a  long,  sharp,  waver- 
ing cry. 

This  seemed  to  me  to  impress  Jack  Warder  more 
than  anything  else  in  this  din  of  war.  He  said  now 
and  again,  "  There  is  that  dog,"  and  wondered  what 
the  beast  tliought  of  it  all.  It  is  curious  upon  what 
the  minds  of  men  fix  on  grave  occasions.  I  meant 
to  ask  Jack  why  he  si)oke  over  and  over  of  the  dog 
when  before  us  was  the  bloody  close  of  a  great  his- 


494      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

toric  tragedy :  a  king  liumbled ;  a  young  republic  at 
sword-point  with  an  ancient  monarchy. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  man's  mind  must  grow  in  the 
presence  of  such  might  of  events.  The  hill,  a  half-mile 
from  the  lines,  was  a  good  vantage-ground  whence 
to  see  and  hear.  Jack  and  I  smoked  many  pipes,  and, 
as  he  was  not  for  duty  in  the  trenches,  lay  here  most 
of  that  cool  October  night,  wrapped  in  our  cloaks. 
Sometimes  we  talked;  more  often  we  were  silent, 
and  ever  the  great  cannon  roared  from  trench  and 
bastion,  or  were  quiet  awhile  to  let  their  hot  lips  cool. 

Once  Jack  fell  to  talk  of  how  he  and  I  were  changed 
from  the  quiet  Quaker  lads  we  had  been,  and  did  I 
remember  our  fii-st  fight,  and  Colonel  Rupert  Forest, 
and  Master  Dove?  That  greater  master.  War,  since 
then  had  educated  and  broadened  us.  He  was  more 
philosophic  than  I,  and  liked  thus  to  speculate ;  but 
of  Darthea  he  said  never  a  word,  though  we  spoke 
of  many  things  that  memorable  night. 

At  last,  when  it  was  near  to  dawn.  Jack  jumped 
up,  crying,  "  Oh,  confound  that  dog ! "  He  had, 
what  I  never  had,  some  remnant  of  the  superstitions 
of  our  ancestors,  and  I  suspect  that  the  howl  of  the 
poor  beast  troubled  him.  I  guessed  at  this  when  he 
said  presently,  "  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  carry  the 
place  by  storm." 

"  Now  don't  tell  me  you  will  get  hit,"  said  I.  "  You 
always  say  that.  There  are  enough  dead  men  to  set 
every  dog  in  Virginia  a-howling." 

Jack  laughed,  but  I  had  shamed  him  out  of  any 
desire  to  repeat  his  predictions  of  disaster,  and  with 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      4Q5 


tlie  signtil-rockets  in  air,  aud  the  resoundiug  thunder 
of  this  storm  of  war  ever  ri:>iug  and  falling,  we  went 
at  last  to  our  tents. 

For  two  or  three  days  liis  Excellency  kept  me  busy ; 
but  since,  except  every  thii-d  or  fourth  day,  Jack  had 
no  active  work,  his  diary  at  this  time  is  very  fully 
kept.  I  see  from  its  i)ages  that  he  tliought  over  and 
over  in  this  leisure  of  what  we  had  so  largely  dis- 
cussed on  that  night  when  we  lay  upon  the  hill. 

*'  October  11,"  I  find  written.—"  Hugh  and  I  had  a 
long  talk  over  our  own  lives.  It  is  a  good  thing  and 
wise  at  times  to  take  stock,  as  merchants  say,  of  one's 
self  and  of  one's  friends.  Indeed,  if  a  man  could 
contrive  a  mond  likeness  of  his  inner  self  such  as  he 
nuiy  have  of  his  body,  and  this  at  different  ages,  it 
were  an  interesting  and  perhaps,  too,  a  useful  thing. 
It  might  much  suiijrise  him  as  the  years  went  on. 
I  think  of  myself  as  not  so  changed  as  Hugh.  I  am 
indeed  more  shy.  As  time  goes  on  I  aiTange  to  hide 
It.  I  am  less  ambitious.  Duty  seems  to  me  more 
and  more  a  thing  wliich  I  must  do  by  rea.son  of  habit, 
that  being  strong  with  me  owing  much  to  the  con- 
stant example  set  by  my  friend's  life.  If  I  have  in 
me  something  of  the  woman's  nature,  as  Mistress 
"WjTine  used  to  declare,  I  do  not  now  so  much  disUke 
the  notion.  It  may  explain  wliy,  as  I  mature,  noth- 
ing in  life  seems  to  me  so  greatly  to  be  desired  as  the 
love  of  my  fellows.  If  I  think  a  man  I  esteem  has 
uo  affection  for  me,  I  will  fetch  and  carry  to  get  it. 
Thank  God  I  need  not  for  Hugh.  For  him  I  would 
give  my  life,  should  he  want  it,  and  what  more  can 


A.g6      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

a  man  do  for  his  friend?  Yes,  there  is  a  greater 
test,  but  of  that  I  need  not  think,  since  she  does  not 
love  me,  nor  ever  could  I  think  to  win  her  love. 

"My  Hugh  is  a  big  handsome  fellow  nowadays, 
builded  to  be  of  the  bigness  of  his  father,  but  cleaner 
fashioned,  from  early  use  of  his  muscles.  He  has 
the  strong  passions  of  these  hot  Welsh,  but  is  disci- 
plined to  control  them,  though  not  always.  He  is 
more  serious  of  late,  and  has  thoughts  which  surprise 
me,  and  show  that  his  mind  has  grown.  I  used  to 
think  he  was  too  abrupt  with  people,  but  he  has  a 
gift  I  have  not— the  power  to  captiu'C  the  fine  ways 
which  these  French  gentlemen  possess,  so  that  nowa- 
days he  has  quite  lost  the  stiff  ways  in  which  we 
were  brought  up.  But  this  art  I  have  not,  nor  ever 
shall  have." 

Now  all  this  is  more  or  less  true,  and  as  I  have 
said  whatever  was  ill  of  myself,  I  like  to  let  another, 
if  a  too  partial  judge,  say  of  me,  for  the  flattery  of 
our  blood,  what  may  one  day  pleasure  my  children 
to  read. 

On  the  night  of  the  12th  of  October  our  second 
parallel  was  opened  by  Baron  Steuben's  division,  in 
which  was  Jack's  command.  It  brought  us  within 
three  hundred  yards  of  the  enemy's  works.  Here 
our  people,  while  at  the  labour  of  digging,  were 
greatly  annoyed  by  the  flanking  fire  of  two  redoubts, 
one  on  each  side,  and  lying  nearly  as  far  out  to  right 
and  left  as  were  now  our  advanced  trenches. 

On  the  18th  Colonel  Tilghman  came  to  ask  me  to 
write  the  needed  orders  for  an  assault  on  these  two 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      497 


redoubts.  He  told  me  tliat  Marquis  Lafayette  had 
asked  that  his  o^vu  aide-de-camp,  Captain  Gimat, 
should  lead  the  stomiiug-pai'ty  of  xVmerieaus  from 
the  troops  for  duty  ou  the  14th,  but  Lieutcuaut- 
Colonel  Ilamiltou  had  insisted  ou  his  owu  right  to 
this  honourable  risk,  he  being,  on  the  day  set  for  the 
assault,  in  command  in  the  trenches. 

This  oflBcer,  my  lifelong  friend,  had,  in  February 
of  '81,  resigned  from  the  staff,  of  which  resignation 
too  much  has  been  said.  It  in  no  way  affected  the 
regard  for  him  which  oiu'  chief  entertained,  and  the 
occasion  of  his  leaving  the  staff  was  not  one,  I 
thought,  to  justify  my  friend  in  so  doing,  as  indeed 
I  made  bold  to  tell  him. 

He  had  now  written  a  spirited  letter  to  our  chief, 
claiming  the  right  of  command,  as  he  had  that  day 
the  tour  of  duty  in  the  trenches.  His  Excellency, 
with  his  strong  sense  of  justice,  had  decided  in  Mr. 
Hamilton's  favour,  and  it  was  thus  settled  that  he 
should  head  our  assaulting  column,  and  the  marquis 
have  command  of  tlie  whole  detachment,  which  was 
to  be  made  up  of  picked  men  from  the  divisions  for 
duty  in  our  works. 

I  wrote  the  required  orders,  and  set  them  forth  in 
the  orderly-book.  The  same  day  toward  nightfall 
Jack  appeared  at  my  tent.  He  said  his  company 
was  selected  to  be  of  the  assault,  atlding  with  a  fine 
colour  and  very  cheerful,  that  here  in  a  packet  wei-e 
letters  he  had  writ  to  his  father  and  to  my  Aunt 
Gainor,  and  here,  to(i,  another— this  with  a  little  hesi- 
tation—for Mi.ss  Darthea. 

33 


49^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

I  laughed,  and  said  I  was  a  bad  person  to  be  his 
executor,  as  I  meant  in  some  way  to  contrive  to  be 
of  the  party ;  how,  I  did  not  yet  know.  He  begged 
me  not  to  risk  mj'self  on  a  business  out  of  my  Hue 
of  duty,  but  I  was  firmly  set  as  to  the  matter,  and  he 
went  away  more  serious  than  I  thought  worth  while. 
In  fact,  I  was  tired  of  the  every-day  sameness  of 
staff-duty  and  incessant  letter- writing. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  was  sent  for  to  the  tent  of 
his  Excellency.  I  found  him  with  the  Comtes  de 
Deuxponts  and  de  Rochambeau.  I  was  wanted  to 
act  as  interpreter.  Although  his  Excellency  could 
comprehend  what  was  said,  he  possessed  no  such 
knowledge  of  French  as  to  be  able  to  speak  it. 

The  business  was  soon  despatched,  and  as  I  lin- 
gered, the  general  asked  what  other  matter  needed 
attention.  Upon  this  I  replied  that  I  greatly  de- 
sired to  be  of  the  storming-party. 

He  returned,  "  I  presume  of  course,  sir,  that  you 
are  not  for  duty  on  the  14th  ? " 

I  said,  "No." 

"Then  your  business  is  with  the  staff.  I  am  un- 
willing to  permit  gentlemen  to  step  aside  out  of 
their  work."  He  spoke  in  his  usual  deliberate  man- 
ner, and  with  a  certain  sternness  such  as  he  well 
knew  how  to  assume. 

I  saluted,  but  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  I  trust,  Excellency,  that  I  have  fulfilled  my  duties 
to  your  satisfaction." 

"  Entu-ely.  I  should  have  made  it  plain  to  you 
had  it  been  otherwise." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      499 

"  And  I  have  never  asked  a  favour  of  your  Exeel- 
leucy.  I  have  been  twice  wounded,  have  had  no 
home  leave  for  four  years,  and  have  spent  five 
months  in  a  Bntish  jail." 

I  saw  a  faint  sniiU'  ronie  over  his  gn'ave  face, 
''  You  boys  are  all  alike.  Here  is  Colonel  Hamilton 
in  a  rage  beeause  the  nuirquis  would  have  given  his 
plaee  to  Captain  Gimat,  and  now  it  is  an  obstinate 
Welshman  must  go  and  get  into  mischief.  I  wish 
the  whole  army  had  your  spii'it,  sir." 

I  ventured  to  observe  that  Colonel  Armand  had 
been  permitted  to  serve  as  a  volunteer,  and  that  I 
had  hoped  that  I  too  should  l)e  allowed  a  like 
favour. 

His  Excellency  smiled,  and  returned,  "As  a  vol- 
unteer, Mr.  Wynne— well,  as  a  volunteer.  Ask  Colo- 
nel Hamilton.  I  trust  that  is  satisfactory.  Ai*e  the 
onlers  and  detail  all  made  out  ? " 

I  said  yes,  and,  thanking  him,  went  away. 

Colonel  Hamilton,  whom  I  saw  early  on  the  14th, 
was  as  much  surprised  at  the  result  of  my  request 
as  was  I,  and  was  plea.'^ed  to  say  he  should  be  glad 
of  my  company,  and  would  I  be  on  hand  in  the 
trenches  ])efore  dark  ? 

The  French  of  the  old  regiment  D'Auvergne, 
which  that  night  won  the  right  to  be  called  D'Au- 
vergne sans  farhf,  were  to  cArry  the  redou])t  to  the 
right  of  the  enemy's  line.  The  Baron  de  Yiomenisle 
wa.s  to  lead  them.  Gimat  was  to  have  a  chance 
W'tli  us. 

"There  are  Connecticut  men,  and  Massachusetts 


500      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

and  Rhode  Island  men,  with  a  reserve  from  Penn- 
sylvania. The  North  has  the  whole  business,"  said 
Hamilton,  "  and  your  friend  Warder  has  the  luck 
to  be  with  us." 

The  redoubt  Number  Ten  on  the  enemy's  left,  and 
nearest  the  river,  fell  to  us,  and  Hamilton  by  no 
means  meant  that  we  should  be  later  in  the  work 
than  our  allies. 

I  am  forced  to  be  thus  particular  because,  although 
in  God's  providence  I  knew  it  not,  I  was  about  to 
pass  through  another  crisis  of  my  adventurous  life. 
Before  dusk  I  was  in  the  trenches,  and  lying  down 
amid  a  crowd  of  silent  men.  Hamilton  walked  to 
and  fro  among  them,  seeing  that  all  were  ready,  and 
at  last  tied  a  piece  of  surgeons'  bandage  around  my 
left  arm,  a  precaution  also  taken  as  to  the  men  that 
they  might  be  distinguished  in  the  darkness  from 
the  enemy. 

Pioneers  with  fascines  and  ladders  were  a  little 
later  put  out  in  front  of  the  trenches,  and  with  them 
the  sappers  and  axemen  under  Captain  Kirkpatrick. 
Within  the  crowded  trenches  and  behind  them  the 
detachment  of  four  hundred  men  lay  ready. 

It  was  cold,  and  a  drizzling  rain  would  have  made 
it  needful,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  to  keep 
the  pans  of  the  muskets  dry;  but  all  loads  were 
drawn,  and  the  marquis  meant  to  trust  to  the  bayonet 
alone.  Jack  was  afoot,  and  in  his  gay  fashion  was 
saying  something  merry  to  his  men.  I  heard  the 
marquis  cry,  "  Silence !  "  in  queer  English,  and  down 
the  line  I  could  hear  officers  repeating  his  order. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      501 

For  a  little  while  till  was  still. 

"  Good-by,"  said  my  Jack.  His  hand  was  damp, 
and  shook. 

"  You  dear  old  idiot !  "  said  I. 

It  wtis  now  close  to  eight,  and  of  a  sudden  our 
cannon  cea^scd.  I  dmily  saw,  a  few  yards  away  in 
the  deep  trench,  the  marquis  looking  back  toward 
GUI'  camp.  The  enemy,  glad,  I  dare  say,  of  a  chance 
to  cool  their  guns,  also  stopped  hiing.  I  wished  to 
heaven  this  horror  of  waiting  were  over. 

Then  a  rocket  rose  high  in  aii*  over  our  camp. 
"  Ready,  men !  "  said  Hamilton,  while  I  drew  my 
long  Hessian  blade. 

Six  bombs  in  quick  succession  rose  and  went  over 
us.  I  heard  the  marquis  cry  out,  ^'£n  avant!  For- 
ward !  " 

''  Fonvard,  sappers !  "  cried  a  voice  in  front. 

"  Come  along,  boys !  "  ciied  Jack.  And  not  giving 
the  sappers  more  than  time  to  scramble  up,  we  were 
off  in  a  s"v^Tft  rush  through  the  darkness.  Tlie 
quickly  fonned  line  broke  u'regularly,  as  we  ran 
over  the  space  between  us  and  the  abatis,  the  sap- 
pers vainly  trjnng  to  keep  ahead. 

As  we  rushed  forward,  my  legs  serving  me  well, 
I  saw  that  they  in  the  redoubt  knew  what  was 
coming.  A  dozen  rockets  went  up,  Bengal  fires  of 
a  sudden  lighted  their  works,  a  cannon-shot  went 
close  to  my  head,  and  all  pandemonium  seemed  to 
break  loose. 

At  the  stockade,  an  hundred  feet  from  their 
works,  our  men  pushed  aside  the  sappers,  and  tore 


502      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

down  the  rude  barrier,  or  tumbled  over  it.  They 
were  used  to  fences.  Here  Gimat  was  hurt,  and 
Kirkpatrick  of  the  pioneers,  and  a  moment  later 
Colonel  Barber. 

The  hundred  feet  beyond  were  passed  at  a  run, 
and  the  men  with  fascines  cast  them  into  the  ditch. 
It  was  already  haK  fuU  of  the  wi-eck  the  cannon  had 
made  in  the  earthwork.  We  jumped  in,  and  out ;  it 
was  all  mud  and  water.  Ladders  were  set  against 
the  parapet,  but  the  slope  was  now  not  abrupt,  having 
been  crumbled  away  by  our  guns,  so  that  most  of  us 
scrambled  up  without  delay.  I  saw  Captain  Hunt 
fall,  the  enemy  firing  wildly.  If  Sergeant  Brown 
of  the  Fourth  Connecticut,  or  Mansfield  of  the  For- 
lorn Hope,  were  first  on  the  parapet,  I  do  not  know. 
Hamilton  got  by  me,  and  I  saw  him  set  a  foot  on  the 
shoulder  of  a  man,  and  jump  on  to  the  top  of  the 
redoubt.  Why  more  or  all  were  not  kiUed  seems  to 
me  a  wonder.  I  think  if  the  enemy  had  been  cooler 
we  had  been  easily  disposed  of.  I  saw  the  girl-boy 
leap  down  among  the  bayonets,  and  we  were  at  once 
in  a  hurly-burly  of  redcoats,  our  men  with  and  after 
us. 

For  a  little  there  was  fierce  resistance  and  a  furi- 
ous struggle,  of  which  I  recaU  only  a  remembrance 
of  smoke,  red  flashes,  yells,  and  a  confusion  of  men 
striking  and  thrusting.  A  big  Hessian  caught  me 
a  smart  thrust  in  the  left  leg— no  great  hurt.  An- 
other with  his  butt  pretty  nearly  broke  my  left  arm, 
as  I  put  it  up  to  save  my  head.  I  ran  him  through, 
and  felt  that  they  were  giving  way. 


Hueh^^v^ne:  Free  Qiuikcr       co 


j> 


To  left  and  right  was  still  a  mad  struggle,  and 
what  with  the  Bengal  fires  still  blazing,  and  a  heap 
of  brush  in  flames  at  one  side  of  the  redoubt,  there 
was  light  enough  to  see.  Near  about  me  was  a  clear 
space,  and  a  pause  such  as  occurs  now  and  then  in 
such  a  scrimmage.  There  were  still  men  who  held 
back,  and  to  whom,  as  I  pushed  on,  I  called,  "  Come 
on  !  We  have  them  !  "  A  great  wind  from  the  sea 
blew  the  smoke  away,  so  that  it  was  easy  to  see.  As 
I  called  out  to  the  men  who  hesitated  on  the  outer 
slope,  as  some  will,  I  heard  before  me  a  voice  cry, 
"  This  way,  men  !  "  and,  turning,  caught  sight  of  the 
face  of  Arthur  Wynne.  lie  too  saw  and  knew  me. 
He  uttered  an  oatli,  I  remember,  crying  out,  "At 
last ! "  as  I  dashed  at  him. 

I  heard  ahead  of  me  cries  for  "  Quarter !  quarter !  " 
The  mass  of  striving  men  had  fallen  back,  and  in 
fact  the  business  was  at  an  end.  I  saw  Jack  run 
from  my  left  t<iward  me,  but  he  stood  still  when  he 
saw  what  was  happening,  and  instantly,  as  he  came, 
Arthur  and  I  crossed  swords.  "\Miat  else  chanced 
or  who  else  came  near  I  knew  not.  I  saw  for  the 
time  only  that  one  face  I  so  hated,  for  the  heap  of 
brush  in  the  work  was  still  lilazing. 

As  is  true  of  ever}'  Wynne  I  ever  knew,  when  in 
danger  I  became  cool  at  once.  I  lost  no  time,  but 
pres.sed  him  hard  with  a  glad  sense  that  he  was  no 
longer  my  master  at  tlie  game.  I  meant  to  kill 
him,  and  as  he  fell  back  I  knew  tliat  at  last  his  hour 
had  come.  I  think  he  too  knew  it.  lie  fenced  with 
caution,  and  was  as  cool  as  I.    Just  as  I  touched 


504      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


him  in  the  right  shoulder  I  felt  a  wounded  Hessian 
clutch  my  leg.  I  fell  squarely  backward,  my  cousin 
lunging  savagely  as  I  dropped.  I  had  been  done 
for  had  not  Jack  struck  up  his  blade  as  I  lay,  call- 
ing out: 

"  Coward ! " 

I  was  up  in  a  moment,  pretty  savage,  and  caught 
sight  of  my  Jack  fencing  with  my  man,  as  calm  as 
if  we  were  in  old  Pike's  gallery.  As  I  stood  pant- 
ing—it was  but  a  moment— I  saw  Jack's  blade  whip 
viciously  round  Arthur's  and  pass  through  his 
breast,  nearly  to  the  guard. 

My  cousin  cried  I  know  not  what,  fell  to  one  side, 
and  then  in  a  heap  across  a  dead  grenadier. 

"Better  I  than  thou,"  cried  Jack,  blowing  hard. 
"  He  wdll  play  no  more  tricks.     Come  on  !  " 

With  a  glance  at  my  enemy  I  hurried  past  him 
over  dead  and  wounded  men,  a  cannon  upset,  mus- 
kets cast  away,  and  what  not. 

"  This  way,  Wynne,"  said  the  marquis.  "  C'estfini  ! 
Get  those  fellows  together,  gentlemen." 

Our  men  were  huddling  the  prisoners  in  a  corner 
and  collecting  their  arms.  A  red-faced  New  Hamp- 
shire captain  was  angrily  threatening  Major  Camp- 
bell, the  commander  of  the  redoubt,  who  had  just  sur- 
rendered. Colonel  Hamilton  struck  up  the  captain's 
blade,  or  I  do  believe  he  would  have  killed  the  major. 
He  was  furious  over  the  death  of  Colonel  Scammel, 
who  was  greatly  beloved,  and  had  been  killed  by 
Hessians  after  having  given  up  his  sword. 

It  was  over,  and  I  went  back  to  see  what  had 


THE  DUEL 


Page  504 
Huyh  yVpnnt 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      505 

become  of  Arthur.  He  was  alive,  and  having 
dragged  himself  to  the  inner  wall  of  the  redoubt, 
was  now  seated  against  it.  Jack  soon  found  a  lan- 
tern, and  bv  its  liirht  we  looked  at  Arthur.  He  was 
covered  with  blood,  but  was  conscious,  and  stared 
at  me  with  dull  eyes,  without  power  to  say  a  word. 

"  Take  care  of  him.  Jack,"  said  I,  and  went  away 
down  the  crumbled  slope  and  through  the  broken 
abatis,  while  overhead  the  bombs  howled  with  un- 
earthly noises  and  the  cannonry  broke  out  anew. 

I  was  still  angry  that  I  had  not  killed  the  man, 
and  went  off  to  my  tent  in  no  very  happy  state  of 
mind,  so  tired  in  body  that  I  could  not  sleep  for 
hours. 

iSavs  Jack,  "  October  15. — I  cau  never  cease  to  be 
thaukf  id  that,  when  we  had  them  driven  like  scared 
sheep  into  tlie  far  side  of  the  redoubt,  I  ran  back  to 
see  what  had  become  of  Hugh.  It  was  but  a  minute 
I  had  missed  him,  and  when  I  saw  him  slip  I  had 
only  just  time  to  catch  that  devil  Arthur  "Wynne's 
Vdade.  He  was  used  in  old  days  to  play  with  me 
like  a  child,  but  either  I  am  ])ccome  more  skilful  or 
he  was  out  of  practic^e,  for  I  knew  pretty  soon  that 
he  was  delivered  over  to  me,  and  had  small  chance 
to  get  away  unhurt.  If  my  friend  had  killed  him, — 
and  that  was  what  he  meant,  I  fear,— would  Dartliea 
ever  have  married  Hugh?  I  know  not,  but  it  has 
been  ordered  otherwise.  There  was  indeed  a  way 
opened,  as  Friends  say.  A  nice  Quaker  I  am 
Ix'come ! " 

I  was  not  of  his  ofjinion  that  night.    Just  before 


506      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

reveille  I  feU  into  a  broken  slumber.  I  awakened 
in  a  sweat,  having-  dreamed  that  I  had  put  a  sword 
through  my  cousin,  and  was  troubled  that  Jack 
was  to  tell  Darthea.  Thus  it  came  to  my  mind 
—dulled  before  this  with  anger  and  unsatisfied  hate 
—that  I  had  made  a  fortunate  escape.  The  morn- 
ing brought  wisdom.  I  was  beginning  to  think 
that  all  was  not  well  between  Darthea  and  Arthur 
Wynne,  and  that  to  kill  him  would  do  anything  but 
add  to  my  chances  with  a  woman  so  sensitive,  nor 
Would  it  much  improve  matters  that  liis  deatli  had 
come  out  of  the  unhappy  chances  of  war. 

When  in  happier  mood  I  began  to  dress  at  dawn, 
I  found  my  left  arm  veiy  stiff  and  sore.  I  must 
have  been  much  distracted  overnight  not  to  have 
felt  it,  and  not  to  have  seen  that  I  was  seriously 
bruised ;  my  breeches  were  starched  stiff  with  blood 
from  a  baj^onet-priek.  Jack's  quarters  were  on  the 
extreme  right,  and  as  soon  as  the  lines  broke  after 
morning  driU  I  rode  over  to  find  him. 

He  told  me  that  Dr.  Rush  was  come  to  camp  the 
day  before  with  other  siu'geons,  and  that  Arthur 
was  in  a  tent  and  cared  for  by  our  good  doctor,  who 
informed  Jack  that  his  sword  had  traversed  the  right 
lung,  but  had  not  gone  through,  as  it  seemed  to  me 
it  must  have  done.  The  doctor  thought  he  might 
possibly  get  over  it.  Out  of  his  affection  for  my 
aunt  he  would  see  that  Arthur  had  such  care  as  she 
would  desire  for  one  of  her  kin,  but  was  it  not  a 
most  unfortunate  accident? 

"I  assured  him,"  said  Jack,  "that  it  was  most 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      507 

lamentable,  but  might  have  been  worse— as  I  in- 
tended it  should  be,"  added  Jack,  with  a  grin.  He 
then  asked  me  had  I  heard  of  that  good  Free  Qua- 
ker, Colonel  Ft)rest,  who  had  taken  Major  Campbell, 
saying,  "I  advise  tliee  to  surrender,  or  thou  wilt 

repent  it,  d thee!"  to  the  delight  of  Hamilton,- 

who  must  tell  his  Excellency  that  night,  having 
supped  with  him  on  his  return. 

I  made  haste  to  write  to  ni}'  aunt,  and  was  able  to 
send  our  letters  North  with  the  general's  despatches 
to  Congress.  I  said  nothing  of  my  own  encounter 
with  -iVi'thur.  but  made  mention  of  Jack's  affair  as 
one  of  the  chances  of  war. 

Dr.  Rush  dressed  my  arm,  and  I  went  back  to 
dnty  with  the  member  in  a  sling,  and  aching  like 
mad.  His  Excellencv,  seeing  mv  condition,  asked 
me  if  my  right  arm  was  in  good  order,  but  made  no 
reference  to  the  left.  After  I  took  his  commands  for 
the  morning  he  said,  seeing  me  limp,  "Were  you 
much  hurt  ? " 

I  said,  "  No ;  I  ran  against  something  sharp  in  the 
bastion." 

He  smiled,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter. 
Fair  women  and  brave  men  were  to  his  Excellency's 
liking. 

This  was  my  last  of  active  warfare.  The  marquis 
tried  his  liand  at  a  sally,  and  made  ready  too  late  to 
get  away  over  the  York  River ;  but  tlie  sally  came 
to  nothing,  and  the  belated  effort  to  run  to  .still  less. 

I  neglected  to  say  that  the  Fnnch,  having  come 
to  the  abatis,  waited  in  line  while  the  pioneers  used 


508      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

their  axes  to  clear  it  away.  Meanwhile,  thanks  to 
too  good  discipline,  they  suffered  severely.  As  we 
rushed  the  whole  thing,  we  lost  far  less.  "It  was 
very  fine  and  en  regie"  said  Hamilton,  "  but  I  like  our 
way  better."     And  so,  I  think,  do  I. 

The  good  doctor  liked  to  come  to  my  staff  tent  in 
those  days,  to  talk  to  me  or  to  others.  He  seemed 
to  think  it  necessary  to  inform  me  of  my  cousin's 
state,  and  I  dare  say  thought  me  cool  about  him. 

"  And  if,  doctor,  I  had  stuck  him  through  the  left 
side  ?  "  said  Jack,  lying  at  ease  on  a  bearskin  in  my 
tent. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  our  doctor,  in  a  quite  profes- 
sional way,  '^  the  heart  or  the  great  arteries  had  like 
enough  been  pierced." 

"  And  what  then  ? "  asked  Jack  of  the  doctor,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  camp-bed. 

"  Probably  death  would  have  occurred." 

On  this  Jack  looked  up  with  those  innocent  eyes, 
and,  pushing  back  the  blond  locks,  said:  "It  is  a 
great  thing  to  know  anatomy.  If  only  I  had  made 
a  little  study  of  that  science.  Dr.  Rush,  I  might  have 
had  better  success  at  this  pig-sticking  business  we 
call  war."  The  sly  humour  of  the  fellow  set  Hamil- 
ton to  laughing,  but  the  doctor  did  not  smile. 

"  It  might  have  been  better  for  Hugh's  cousin,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  sweetly ;  "  perhaps." 

As  they  talked  I  was  automatically  putting  into 
fine  French  a  letter  of  his  Excellency  to  Comte 
d'Estaing,  and  I  took  in  readily  what  was  passing. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      509 

WTieu  Jack  said,  "  Perhaps,"  I  cried  out,  "  It  would 
be  a  fine  thing,  doctor,  to  have  all  this  saving  know- 
ledge on  both  sides,  so  as  to  know  where  not  to  hurt 
one  another." 

Hamilton  was  on  the  side  of  Dr.  Rush.  "  It  were 
more  to  the  pm-pose,"  he  said,  "  to  sit  down  and  not 
to  go  to  wai-  at  all."  This  was  set  forth  demurely, 
the  colonel  seeing  how  serious  a  dose  our  fun  was 
for  the  gi'eat  physician,  who  did  somewhat  lack  the 
capacity  to  discover  the  entertainment  to  be  found 
in  this  manner  of  jesting. 

He  returned  gi'avely  that  this  was  his  opinion, 
and  tliat  liad  he  liis  way,  war  and  drinking  of  spirits 
should  alike  cease. 

To  this  we  agreed  in  part  as  one  man,  for  of  war 
we  were  tired  enough.  As  to  the  other  matter,  we  did 
not  mention  it.  To  think  of  such  a  revolution  was  too 
astonishing  in  those  days,  nor  have  we  come  to  it  yet. 

After  that  the  doctor  discussed  Arthui-'s  case  "with 
much  learning  and  e\'ident  satisfaction.  I  might 
like  in  a  day  or  two  to  see  Captain  Wynne.  I  was 
of  opinion  that  it  would  do  him  harm,  and  when  the 
great  doctor  said,  '*'  Perhaps,  perhaps,''  Jack  began 
discreetly  to  talk  war,  and  asked  where  was  General 
Gates. 

But  bj'  this  time  our  doctor  had  become  cautious. 
His  favourite  commander  was  dismissed  ^\'ith  a 
word  or  two,  and  so  our  chat  ended,  Mr.  Hamilton 
and  the  pliysician  going  awaj'  together,  each  plojised 
with  the  otlier,  and,  despite  some  differences  in  pol- 
itics, to  remain  lifelong  friends. 


5 1  o      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

On  the  17tli  of  October,  the  Marquis  Cornwallis 
having  had  a  stomach  full  of  fighting,  and  ha\dng 
failed  of  his  schemes  to  get  away  across  the  York 
River,  beat  a  parley,  and  after  some  discussion 
signed  the  articles  of  capitulation.  The  soldiers 
were  to  remain  prisoners  in  Vu'ginia  and  Maryland, 
the  officers  were  to  return  to  Europe  upon  parole. 
The  beaten  army  at  two  on  the  19th  came  down  the 
road  between  the  French  and  our  lines,  with  the 
colours  in  their  cases,  and  the  bands  playing  a  Brit- 
ish march ;  for  it  is  of  the  etiquette  of  such  occasions 
that  the  captiu'ed  army  play  none  but  their  own 
tunes.  Some  wag  must  have  chose  the  air,  for  they 
marched  by  to  the  good  old  Enghsh  music  of  "  The 
World  Turned  Upside  Down";  such  must  have 
seemed  sadly  the  case  to  these  poor  devils. 

As  I  was  of  the  staff,  I  was  privileged  to  see  well 
this  wonderful  and  glorious  conclusion  of  a  mighty 
strife.  Our  chief  sat  straight  in  the  saddle,  with  a 
face  no  man  could  read,  for  in  it  was  neither  elation 
nor  show  of  satisfaction,  as  the  sullen  ranks  came 
near. 

At  the  head  of  the  line  rode  General  O'Hara.  He 
paused  beside  our  chief,  and  begged  his  Excellency 
to  receive  the  excuses  of  my  Lord  CornwaUis,  who 
was  not  well  enough  to  be  present,  wliich  no  one 
believed  nor  thought  a  manly  thing  to  do. 

His  Excellency  bowed,  trusted  it  was  not  very 
serious,  but  would  not  receive  General  O'Hara's 
sword.  With  quiet  dignity  he  motioned  him  to 
deliver  it  to  Major- General  Lincoln,  who  now  had 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      51  i 

these  grateful  ameuds  for  the  misfortune  of  having 
had  to  surrender  his  own  gt)od  Lhide  at  Charleston. 

After  this  the  long  aiTay  of  chagrined  and  beaten 
men  went  by,  and,  returning  to  York,  were  put  under 
guard. 

A  day  or  two  later  a  letter  of  my  aunt's  informed 
me  of  the  disorder  my  father's  condition  had  brought 
about  on  his  tobacco-plantation  in  Maryhmd.  This 
caused  me  to  ask  for  leave,  and,  with  the  under- 
standing that  I  might  be  recalled  at  any  time,  I  re- 
ceived permission  to  be  absent  two  months. 

I  set  out  on  November  5  for  Annapolis,  with  two 
horses  and  my  ser\'ant.  Arthur  Wynne,  being 
found  unfit  to  go  to  Europe  with  the  rest,  was 
taken  a  week  later  by  our  doctor  on  a  transport 
to  the  Head  of  Elk,  and  thence  by  coach  to  Phila- 
delpliia.  There,  as  I  heard,  tlie  doctor  took  liim  to 
liis  own  liouse,  much  amazed  tliat  Mistress  Gainor 
would  not  receive  him.  Arthur  won  the  good  doc- 
tor, as  lie  did  most  people,  and,  despite  all  expecta- 
tions, was  said  to  be  mending  fast,  being  much 
petted  by  the  Tory  ladies ;  but  if  Darthea  had  seen 
him  or  not  I  did  not  then  learn. 

My  affairs  in  Maryland,  where  we  had  many 
slaves  and  large  interests,  kept  me  busy  until  near 
the  clo.se  of  December,  when  I  set  out  to  rejoin  the 
staff  in  Philadelphia,  my  leave  lieing  up. 

During  this  winter  of  \sl  and  'S2  my  duties  were 
light,  and  except  to  write  a  few  despatches  daily, 
and  to  atttmd  his  Excellency  on  occasions  of  festivity, 
I  had  little  to  do  save  to  look  after  my  father's  affidrs. 


5 1  2      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

It  is  now  fit  that  I  return  to  the  narration  of  such 
things  as  immediately  concern  my  personal  interests. 
Arthur  Wynne  was  able  to  ride  out  by  the  end  of 
January,  as  I  heard,  for  I  did  not  chance  to  see  him. 
My  father  remained  much  as  he  had  been  for  a  year. 

Darthea,  to  our  great  surprise,  on  Captain  Wynne's 
return  became  desirous  to  yield  to  her  aunt  and 
to  go  to  New  York.  My  aunt  said  she  would  get 
them  a  pass  through  our  lines  in  the  Jerseys ;  but 
this  proving  difficult,  they  stayed  in  and  about 
the  city,  spending  much  time  at  their  old  home  in 
Bristol.  Darthea  was  so  clearly  unwilling  to  see 
me  that  I  was  fain  to  give  it  up,  and  accept  what 
I  could  not  better.  When  I  said  I  was  sorry  she 
wished  to  go  away,  my  Aunt  Gainor  replied  that 
I  was  a  fool,  and  would  never  be  anything  else. 
I  asked  why,  but  she  was  away  from  my  question 
at  once,  and  went  on  to  tell  me  what  officers  were 
to  dine  with  her  that  day,  and  did  his  Excellency 
like  Madeira?  and  why  was  her  doctor  so  fond  of 
quoting  Mr.  Adams's  letters  from  Holland,  where  he 
now  was  on  a  mission,  with  his  na^ty  sneers  at 
Virginians  and  Mr.  Washington  ?  She  gave  me  no 
time  to  reply.  Indeed,  this  and  much  else  I  saw  or 
heard  in  those  days  was  quite  beyond  me. 

My  aunt's  way  of  dismissing  a  question  she  liked 
s  not  was  to  pour  out  matters  which  were  quite  irrel- 
evant, when  to  stop  her  was  altogether  past  hope. 
I  had  learned  to  wait.  She,  at  my  desire,  made  Jack 
her  aid  in  her  affairs,  as  I  was  fully  occupied  with 
my  father's  neglected  business.    Now,  too,  she  was 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      513 

busy  finding  Ja<?k  a  wife,  and  would  tell  nie  all  about 
it,  striding  to  and  fro,  and  with  vast  shrewdness  and 
humour  discussing  the  young  women  we  knew. 

"  Cat "  Ferguson  Avas  very  humble,  and  the  Chews 
in  great  favour  vrith  his  Excellency.  I  was  fain 
to  dismiss  my  wonder  as  to  Darthea,  and,  unable  to 
recur  to  the  question  I  had  asked,  I  went  away  to 
headquarters  in  the  great  Chew  house  in  Thii'd 
street. 

The  town  was  gone  wild  with  feasting  and  din- 
ners, and  as  the  general  liked  his  staff  to  attend 
him,  I  had  more  of  these  engagements  than  I  cared 
about. 

Arthur,  still  weak  and  on  parole,  lingered;  but 
why  he  did  not  get  permission  to  go  to  New  York, 
as  had  been  easv,  I  coidd  not  well  understand. 

In  February,  '82,  I  came  home  to  my  father's  one 
morning  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  and  to  my 
surprise  heard  my  cousin's  voice. 

"  I  fear,  sir,  I  am  not  unders"  .od.  I  came  for  the 
deed  you  promised  me." 

My  poor  father,  a  huge,  wasted  framework  of  a 
big  man,  was  looking  at  him  with  lack-lustre  eyes. 
He  said,  "  ^ly  wife  will  be  with  us  presently.  "Wilt 
thou  stay  for  dinner?" 

1  went  in  at  once,  saying,  "  I  am  more  than 
amazed,  sir,  to  see  you  here.  As  to  the  deed  you 
would  have  st^)len— " 

"  What !  "  he  cried. 

"I  said  'stolen,' sir.  As  to  the  deed  j'ou  woidd 
have  stolen  from  a  miui  too  feeble  in  mind  to  guard 


514      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

his  own  property,  I  have  only  this  to  say  "  (amid  con- 
stant duties  it  had  gone  from  my  mind) :  "  1  shall 
put  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  seeing  it." 

"  I  have  no  other  pui-pose,"  he  said  quietly — ''  none. 
To  you  I  could  not  go,  and,  sii",  if  you  choose  to 
consider  my  effort  in  any  other  light  than  an  honest 
one,  I  have  no  more  to  say.  We  have  enough  causes 
of  difference  without  that." 

"  Quite  enough,"  said  I,  I  was  beginning  to  lose 
grip  of  my  patience.  "  Quite  enough.  That  they  were 
not  settled  long  ago  an  accident  alone  prevented." 

"I  am  not,  sir,  in  a  way  fitly  to  answer  you. 
Neither  is  this  a  place  nor  a  presence  for  this  dis- 
cussion." 

'^  At  least  we  can  agree  as  to  that,"  said  I ;  "  but  I 
did  not  seek  it.  At  my  own  leisure  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  certain  questions  wliich,  as  a  gentleman  and 
a  man  of  honour,  you  will  find  it  hard  to  answer." 

"I  fail  to  comprehend,"  he  returned,  with  his 
grand  air,  looking  all  the  better  for  his  paleness. 

I  said  it  was  not  now  needful  that  he  should,  and 
that  in  future  he  would  understand  that  he  was  no 
longer  a  welcome  guest. 

"  As  you  please,"  he  said. 

I  thought  he  showed  little  anxiety  to  hear  at 
length  what  was  in  my  mind. 

Meanwhile,  as  we  spoke,  my  father  looked  va- 
cantly from  me  to  him  and  from  him  to  me,  and  at 
last,  his  old  hospitable  instincts  coming  uppermost, 
he  said,  ''  Thou  hast  not  asked  thy  cousin  to  take 
spirits,  Hugh." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      515 

Arthur,  smiliug  sadly,  as  I  thought,  said:"Thauk 
you,  none  for  ine.  Good-day,  Cousin  Wynne,''  and 
merely  bowing  to  me,  he  went  out,  I  ceremoniously 
opening  the  door. 

I  had  Siiid  no  more  than  I  intended  to  say ;  I  was 
resolutely  bent  upon  telling  this  man  what  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  and  ^ehat  I  knew  of  his  baseness.  To 
do  this  it  was  needful,  above  all,  to  find  Delaney. 
After  that,  whether  Darthea  married  my  cousin  or 
not,  I  meant  that  she  should  at  last  know^  what  I 
knew.  It  was  fair  to  her  tliat  some  one  should  open 
her  eyes  to  tiiis  man's  character.  When  away  from 
her,  hope,  the  friend  of  the  absent,  was  ever  with 
me ;  but  once  face  to  face  with  Darthea,  to  think  of 
her  as  by  any  possibility  mine  became  impossible. 
Yet  from  first  to  last  I  was  firm  in  my  purpose,  for 
this  was  the  way  I  was  made,  and  so  I  am  to  this 
day.  But  whether  I  had  loved  her  or  not,  I  should 
have  done  my  best  out  of  mere  friendship  to  set  her 
free  from  the  bonds  in  which  she  was  held. 

I  had  heard  of  Delaney  as  being  in  tlie  South,  but 
whether  he  had  come  out  alive  fi-om  the  tussles  be- 
tween ^Morgan,  Marion,  and  Tarleton,  I  knew  not. 
On  asking  Colonel  Harrison,  the  general's  secretary, 
he  told  me  he  thought  he  could  discover  his  where- 
abouts. Next  day  he  called  to  tell  me  that  there 
was  an  officer  of  the  name  of  Delaney  at  the  London 
Inn,  now  cjilled  "The  Flag,"  on  Front  street,  and 
that  he  had  been  asking  for  me.  I  had  missed  him 
)jy  five  minut*'s.  He  liad  called  with  despatches 
from  Major-Generai  Greene. 


516      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

To  my  joy  this  proved  to  be  the  man  I  wanted, 
nor  was  it  surprising  that  he  should  thus  luckily 
appear,  since  the  war  was  over  in  the  South,  and  a 
stream  of  officers  was  passing  through  Philadelphia 
daily  to  join  the  Northern  army. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  know  me,  but  was  de- 
lighted when  I  named  myseK. 

I  said  I  had  no  time  to  lose,  and  asked  him  to 
meet  me  at  my  aunt's  in  the  afternoon.  I  much 
feared  that  Ai*thur  would  get  away  before  I  was 
ready  to  talk  to  him. 

Delaney  had  received  my  last  letter  and  had  an- 
swered  it,  but  whither  his  reply  went  I  cannot  say. 
At  all  events,  he  had  lingered  here  to  find  me.  "When 
we  met  at  my  Aunt  Gainor's  that  afternoon,  it  took 
but  a  few  minutes  to  make  clear  to  her  the  sad  tale 
of  Arthur's  visit  to  the  jail. 

My  friend  had  no  sooner  done  than  the  old  lady 
rose,  and  began  as  usual  to  walk  about,  saying :  "You 
will  excuse  me ;  I  must  think  of  this.  Talk  to  Hugh." 
What  there  was  to  think  of  I  could  not  see. 

Delaney  looked  on  amused,  and  he  and  I  chatted. 
She  was  evidently  much  disturbed,  and  while  the 
captain  and  I  talked,  I  saw  her  move  a  chair,  and 
pick  up  and  set  down  some  china  beast.  At  last 
she  said :  "  Come  in  at  nine  to-night,  Mr.  Delaney. 
I  want  to  think  this  over.  I  have  still  much  I  desire 
to  ask  you.  It  deeply  concerns  my  nephew  in  a  way 
I  cannot  now  explain  to  you.  May  I  have  the  priv- 
ilege of  another  half -horn*  ? " 

Delaney  bowed. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      517 

"Of  course  I  do  not  want  you,  Hugh,"  she  added. 

When  you  have  known  a  woman  as  long  as  I  had 
known  my  aunt,  there  are  sometimes  hints  or  warn- 
ings in  her  most  casual  expressions.  When  my 
aunt  said  I  was  not  wanted  that  evening  I  knew  at 
once  that  she  was  meditating  something  out  of  the 
common,  but  just  what,  I  did  not  think  to  ask  my- 
self. My  Aunt  Gainor  was  all  her  life  fond  of  what 
she  called  inventing  chances,  a  fine  phnise,  of  which 
she  was  proud.  In  fact,  this  sturdy  old  spinster 
liked  to  interfere  authoritatively  in  the  affairs  of 
men  and  women,  and  believed  that  for  this  she  had 
a  special  talent,  which  in  f.ict  she  discovered  no  in- 
clination to  bury ;  but  what  now  she  had  in  liand  to 
do  I  knew  not. 

She  was  deeply  grieved  for  a  season  to  find  that 
her  plans  went  awi-y,  or  that  men  were  disappointed, 
or  that  women  would  not  go  her  way.  "  Wlien  she 
hurts  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ferguson,  "  she  is  like  a  child, 
and  has  a  dozen  silly  devices  for  doctoring  your 
wounds.  We  have  fought  many  tinu^s,  and  made 
up  as  often.  There  is  no  real  malice  in  her,"  which 
was  true. 

Jack  Warder  once  remarked  in  liis  lively  way  that 
Mistress  W\Tine  had  a  richlv  coloured  character.  I 
fear  it  may  have  looked  at  times  very  black  to  some 
and  ver}"  rose-tinted  to  others,  but  assuredly  never 
gray  in  its  tones,  n(»r  other  than  positive. 

With  me  she  took  all  manner  of  liberties,  and 
with  Darthea  too,  and  if  ever  she  were  in  doubt  if  it 
were  well  U)  meddle  in  our  affairs  I  know  not.     A 


5 1  8      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

vast  richness  of  liuman  love  and  an  urgent  desire  of 
rule  lay  underneatli  the  life  she  showed  the  out^er 
world  of  quadrille  and  dinners  and  gossip. 

When  she  hurt  us,  or,  as  Darthea  said,  broke  her 
china  in  trjdng  to  wash  it,  she  fell  back  on  our  love 
with  a  quite  childlike  astonishment  that  what  was 
come  out  of  affection  should  give  rise  to  resentment. 

"With  a  slight  puzzle  in  my  mind  I  went  away 
with  Delaney  to  dine  at  the  London  Coffee-house, 
which  now  showed  our  own  new  flag,  where  so  often 
I  had  passed  in  under  the  cross  of  St.  George. 

"  We  have  a  new  St.  George  now,"  said  Mr,  John 
Adams,  in  one  of  those  ill-natured  letters  to  Dr. 
Eush  which  filled  my  aunt  with  rage.  '^  Sancte 
Washington,  era  pro  nobis."  The  Massachusetts 
statesman  admired  our  grave  and  knightly  St. 
George,  but  there  are  those  who  cannot  fly  a  kite 
without  the  bobtail  of  a  sneer — which  is  good  wit,  I 
think,  but  not  my  own ;  it  was  Jack  said  that, 

Wlien  Delaney  left  me  to  call  again  upon  my 
aunt,  I  little  dreamed  of  what  part  she  meant  him 
to  plaj'.  He  left  the  town  early  next  day,  and  had 
it  not  been  for  Jack  I  should  not  for  a  long  while 
have  known  fully  what  an  hour  brought  forth. 

"On  the  afternoon  of  February  28  of  this  1782," 
says  Jack's  diary,  "I  got  a  note  from  Mistress 
Wynne  asking  me  to  see  her  on  business  at  nine. 
I  found  with  her,  to  my  pleasure,  the  good  felloAv 
Delaney,  and  was  able  to  thank  him  for  the  service 
he  had  done  us  all  in  his  noble  care  of  Hugh.  We 
talked  over  our  battles,  and  presently  comes  in 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      519 

Dai*tliea,  whom  now  we  see  but  rarely,  for  reasons 
best  kno^vn  to  herself. 

"I  do  believe  Huirli  has  given  up  his  love-affair 
as  a  thing:  quite  liopeless,  and  no  wonder.  I  think 
she  still  sees  tliat  rascal  of  an  English  captain,  and 
perhaps  he  will  not  have  her  keep  up  a  closer  friend- 
ship with  such  as  uo  longer  desire  his  own  acquain- 
tance. 

"Mr.  Delaney  was,  like  all  men,  charmed  with 
Miss  Peniston,  and  the  talk  went  on  busily  enough, 
the  young  woman  in  good  spu'its  and  the  captain 
most  amusing. 

"  By  and  by  he  spoke  quite  naturally  of  the  hor- 
roi-s  of  their  life  in  the  provost's  prison,  and  upon 
this  Darthea,  becoming  of  a  sudden  seriously  atten- 
tive, listened  with  fixed  gaze.  Our  hostess,  seeing 
her  chance,  said;  ^  I  meant  to  ask  you  more  of  that 
to-day,  but  mj'  nephew  hates  even  to  hear  of  it. 
How  long  were  vou  there?' 

" '  I  was  taken  at  Germantown  like  Mr.  WjTine, 
and  was  kept  until  June.  After  W}Tine  nearly 
killed  that  rascal,  Cunningham,  things  were  worse 
than  ever.' 

"'And  was  ITugli  so  veiy  ill?' 

" '  He  could  not  have  been  wor.se  to  live  at  all.' 

"'And  was  there  no  inspection  amid.st  all  those 
horrors?  Do  you  suppose  Sir  William  knew  noth- 
ing of  them  ?     I  can  hardly  credit  that.' 

"  Darthea  looked  round  at  Mistress  W\Tine.  She 
had  been  unusually  silent.  Now  turning  to  Delaney, 
she  said,  with  slow  articulation;  'I  also  am  curious. 


520      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

Mr.  Delaney.  "We  heard  many  nimours  and  some 
unpleasant  facts.  Could  Sir  William  Howe  have 
known?     I  cannot  think  it.' 

"  *  But  he  must,  after  the  inspections,  and  there 
were  three  to  my  knowledge,' 

"  '  Indeed  ? '  said  Mistress  Wynne.  *  'T  is  most 
strange ! ' 

"  Delaney  hesitated,  not  liking,  I  suppose,  to  men- 
tion Arthur,  her  cousin,  of  whose  close  relation  to 
Darthea,  however,  he  was  not  aware. 

"  '  And  one,'  Mistress  Wynne  went  on, '  was,  I  hear, 
made  by  our  kinsman.' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Delaney, '  and  that  did  certainly  amaze 
me.     Captain  Wynne—' 

"  '  Captain  Wynne  ! '  exclaimed  Darthea,  and,  turn- 
ing her  head,  she  looked  sharply  at  Mistress  Wynne 
and  then  at  me.  I  think  that  Delaney,  being  un- 
familiar with  her  habits  of  speech,  did  not  notice 
how  strange  was  the  tone  in  which  she  added,  '■  We 
all  know  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne.' 

" '  Indeed ! '  said  Delaney ;  '  but  of  course  I  might 
have  known  that.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes !  I  interi'upted  you.  Pray,  go  on ;  it  is 
most  interesting.' 

"'Very,'  said  Mistress  Wynne.  And  now  I  saw 
what  a  wicked  trap  our  spinster-fox  had  laid  for  poor 
Darthea.  Delaney,  a  bit  puzzled,  glanced  at  me.  I 
made  no  sign.     It  must  not  stop  here. 

" '  It  is  a  queer  story,  Miss  Peniston,  and  not  much 
to  the  credit  of  his  Majesty's  officers.' 

" '  What  next  ? '  said  Darthea. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      521 

"'Oh,  the  tale  is  l>rief  and  bnitcol.  I  -was  seated 
on  the  straw  one  day,  with  Hugh's  head  in  my  lap, 
putting:  water  on  his  forehead  and  trying  to  quiet 
hira,  when  the  turnkey  eame  in  with  an  English 
officer.  This  gentlenian*lo(»ked  about  him  at  the  few 
left  alive,  asked  carelessly  who  broke  the  window- 
panes,  and  then  suddenly  seemed  to  notice  Hugh. 
He  asked  who  was  this  poor  devil.  The  turnkey  said, 
'*  Name  of  Wynne,  sir,"  Then  the  captain  stood  still 
a  moment,  staring  at  us,  and,  as  if  curious,  bent  down, 
asking  me  what  Hugh  was  saying.  Now  my  poor 
friend  wai>  muttering  over  and  over,  "  Dorothea ! 
Dorothea!"— some  woman's  name,  I  suppose,  but 
what  woman  he  never  told  me.' 

"At  this  I  saw  Darthea  flush,  but  perhaps  remem- 
bering that  Mr.  Delaney  might  know  her  only  as 
Miss  Peniston,  which  was  the  fact,  she  controlled 
herself  and  said  quickly :  'He  asked  his  name?  Are 
you  sure  he  asked  his  name?  Could  there  have 
been  no  mistake?' 

"  Delaney  looked  the  surprise  he  no  doubt  felt, 
and  replied,  '  Yes ;  of  that  I  am  sure.' 

"  *  Do  you  think,'  said  Darthea,  '  he  knew  how  ill 
Mr.  Hugh  Wynne  waa  ? ' 

" '  Certainly ;  I  heard  the  turnkey  tell  him  that  a 
day  or  two  would  see  Hugh  in  tlie  potter's  field  with 
the  rest.  The  doctor  had  said  as  much.  This  was 
true  ;  he  ha<l  told  me  it  was  useless  for  him  to  return, 
and  indeed  I  thought  so  too.  They  buried  a  half- 
dozen  a  day.  When  told  that  this  man  Wynue  had 
jail-fever,  the  captain  seemed  in  haste  to  leave.  At  the 


522      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

door  lie  turned  and  took  another  look  at  Hugh,  and 
then  went  out.  I  asked  his  name  next  day,  but  the 
turnkey  laughed,  and  said  it  was  none  of  my  busi- 
ness. I  had  a  fancy  that  the  inspector  desired  to 
remain  unknown.  I  was  sure  of  this  when,  a  few 
days  after,  I  described  the  officer  to  Hugh,  who  was 
then  quite  himself.  When  Hugh  said  at  last,  ''Had 
he  a  scar  over  the  left  eye? "  and  I  said  he  had,  Hugh 
cried  out  in  a  rage  that  it  was  his  cousin,  and  would 
talk  of  nothing  else  for  days.  I  fear  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  inspecting  officer  was  Captain  Arthur 
Wynne.' 

"'Horrible!'  exclaimed  Mistress  Wynne.  'In- 
credible ! ' 

" '  Yes;  it  seems  to  me  a  quite  inconceivable  thing, 
but  I  am  certain,  though  the  man  looked  a  gentle- 
man all  over.' 

" '  He  looked  a  gentleman  all  over,'  said  Darthea, 
with  strange  deliberateness  of  speech. 

"This  while  Mistress  Wynne  sat  drawn  up,  her 
face  set,  and  one  hand  moving  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  just  the  same  queer  trick  her  brother  had.  As 
for  me,  I  watched  Darthea.  It  was  a  merciless  plot, 
and  may  have  been  needed;  but  in  truth  the  way  of 
it  was  cruel,  and  my  heart  bled  for  her  I  loved. 

"  As  she  spoke  her  tones  were  so  strange  that  Mr. 
Delaney,  who  was  clearly  but  an  innocent  though 
sharp  tool,  said:  'I  beg  pardon.  Miss  Peniston.  These 
sad  stories  are  too  dreadful  to  repeat.  Miss  Wynne 
would  have  it — ' 

"But  Darthea  was  now  quite  lost  to  the  common 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qmiker      523 

•ways  of  life.  She  went  on  like  a  person  questioning 
herself,  as  it  sonnded  to  nie.  '  Arthm*  Wynne  asked 
his  name.     Is  that  so  ? ' 

"  Delaney  siiid,  *  Yes,'  now,  as  I  saw,  quite  ti'oubled, 
and  wishing  himself  out  of  it,  I  dove  say. 

" '  And  he  knew  ho  was  in  rags,  starved,  d}-ing, 
and  lie  left  him  ? '  continued  Dai'thea.  '  He  left  him 
—to  die.' 

"'Yes;  but—' 

"'No  matter.  I  must  hear  all— all!'  she  cried 
sharply— '  all !     I  am  the  person  most  concerned.' 

*'  *  Darthea ! '  then  exclaimed  Miss  Wvnne,  alarmed, 
I  suppose,  at  her  wild  manner  and  breaking  voice. 

"But  Dai-thea  went  on.  'This  is  my  business, 
madam.  You  are  sure,  sir?  Tiiis  is  no  time  to 
trifle.  I  — I  am— I  must  know  !  I  must  know !  Woidd 
you  say  this  to  Captain  Wynne  were  he  here  ?  An- 
swer me,  sir ! ' 

"  *  Certainly  I  would,  ^liss  Peniston.' 

"'Mistress  Wynne,'  said  Darthea,  rising,  'I  have 
been  brought  here  to  let  a  stranger  see  my— my 
weakness.  It  is  j)lain.  Did  you  think  I  could  hide 
it,  madam  ?  Pardon  m(»,  sir.  You  have  done  me  a 
cruol  .'^erA'iee.  I  — I  thank  you.  I  bid  you  good- 
evening,  Mi.<tress  Wynne.  Was  there  no  other  way, 
no  kinder  way,  to  tell  me?  Will  you  take  me  home, 
Jack?     I— I  am  tire<l.' 

"We  had  all  risen  with  her  at  the  beginning  of 
this  last  speech,  I  troubled,  ISIiss  Wynne  very  red, 
and  only  fit  to  siiy  over  and  over,  'Darthea  !  Darthea !  * 
Mr.  Delaney  annoyed,  and  lacking  knowledge  of  the 


524      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 

situation;  all  of  us  awkward  and  confused  save 
Darthea,  who  passed  out  into  the  hall,  followed  by- 
Miss  Wynne,  and  saying,  as  she  went  forth,  '  I  will 
never  forgive  you,  madam,  never !  never !  You  are 
a  wicked  old  woman !  I  shall  never  speak  to  you 
again.     I  did  not  think  it.' 

"  I  walked  in  silence  beside  her  to  Mrs.  Peniston's 
home.  '  Thank  you.  Jack,'  said  she,  in  a  sweet,  low 
voice.  'You  did  not  know,  did  you,  of  this  sad 
story  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  dear  lady,  but  of  this  disgusting  plot,  no.' 

" '  But  why  did  you,  who  are  my  friend,  and  Mr. 
Hugh  Wjame,  and  all  of  you,  leave  me  in  the  dark 
as  to  this— this  man?' 

"  I  said  quickly  that  it  was  not  well  to  have  told 
her  until  Mr.  Delaney  could  be  found.  He  had  but 
just  now  come.  She  had  seemed  to  trust  Captain 
Wynne's  story;  Hugh's  was  but  the  hearsay  of  a 
man  just  out  of  a  deadly  fever.     We  had  waited. 

"As  I  spoke,  she  stood  with  her  calash  bonnet 
fallen  back,  clear  to  see  by  the  full  moonlight,  and 
looking  with  intent  face  across  Arch  street,  as  it 
might  be  with  envy  of  the  untroubled  dead  of  gen- 
erations who  la}^  around  the  meeting-house.  As  I 
ended,  she  said: 

"  *  I  have  been  a  fool,  Jack,  but  I  loved  him ;  indeed 
I  did.  Is  there  more  ?  I  know  Hugh  hates  him.  Is 
there  more?' 

" '  Too  much,  too  much,  Darthea,'  I  said. 

" '  Then  come  in.  I  must  hear  all— all.'  And  she 
knocked  impatiently. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qiiiiker      525 

"  Pi*eseiitl)'  we  vrere  in  the  parlour.  '  Fetch  a  light/ 
she  said  to  tlie  black  who  opened  for  us.  When  we 
were  aloue  and  seated,  she  said  qnietly :  '  Jack,  you 
are  my  only  friend.  I  do  trust  you — oh,  entirely. 
Now  what  is  it  ?  I  nuist  know  all.  Why  has  Hugh 
Wynne  been  silent?     It  is  not  like  him.' 

'' '  I  have  already  told  you  why.  Partly  because, 
Darthea,  you  wore  away,  or  would  not  see  us.  That 
you  know.  Partly  because  Hugh  had  only  his  own 
word  to  give ;  but  this  I  have  told  you.' 

"  *  Yes,  yes,'  she  cried ;  '  but  what  else  ? ' 

" '  I  think,'  said  I,  '  knowing  hira  well,  that  Hugh 
meant,  when  once  he  had  Delaney's  evidence,  to  tell 
his  cousin  face  to  face,  and  so  force  him  to  release 
you.' 

*• '  That  is  my  business,  not  his,'  she  broke  in. 
'What  has  Hugh  Wynne  to  do  with  it?  Am  I  a 
chUd?' 

" '  It  had  been  the  kinder  and  the  manlier  way,' 
said  I.  *  Now  tliere  is  no  need ;  but  Hugh  wiU  be 
furious  with  his  aunt.' 

'"  I  am  glad  of  that.  Wliat  else  is  tliere  1  You 
are  hiding  something.' 

"  <  There  was  that  scene  in  the  garden,  Darthea.' 

"  She  coloured  at  this.  *  Yes,  I  know ;  but  there 
were  reasonal)le  excuses  for  that,  and  no  one  had 
time  to  think.' 

"'Two  people  had,  Darthea.' 

"  '  We  will  let  that  pass.  Jack.     Don't  play  with 


me.' 


•  Then,  driven  to  the  wall,  so  to  speak,  I  told  her 


526      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

of  the  sad  revelation  Andre  had  made  to  Hugh,  and 
how,  being  Hugh's  enemy,  Arthur  had  been  base 
enough  to  involve  him  in  an  affair  which  might  have 
been  his  ruin, 

" '  Yes,  yes,'  she  said,  '  I  see  5  but  who  could  know, 
or  who  think  to  use  such  knowledge  ? ' 

"  I  was  taken  aback  at  her  seeming  to  have  any 
doubt.  I  coldly  set  myself  to  tell  her  of  Arthm-'s 
double  dealing  about  the  estate,  and  of  how  he 
had  made  Hugh's  father  believe  he  was  minded 
to  consider  the  ways  of  Friends,  and  at  last  of  how 
he  had  borrowed  money  and  had  set  poor  Hugh's 
half-demented  father  against  him.  I  did  not  spare 
her  or  him,  and  the  half  of  what  I  said  I  have  not 
set  down.  The  Arnold  business  I  did  return  to,  see- 
ing that  it  struck  her,  or  seemed  to,  less  than  it  did 
me  j  for  to  my  mind  it  was  the  worst. 

"'Darthea,'  I  said,  'how  could  a  man  of  honour 
or  even  of  good  feeling  put  any  gentleman  in  such 
peril  of  worse  than  death  ?  There  were  Tories  enough 
to  have  done  his  shameful  errand.  But  oh,  dear 
Darthea,  to  suggest  to  send  on  such  business  an  open, 
frank  enemy, — his  cousin  too, — that  was  too  bad  for 
the  lowest  and  vilest ! ' 

"  '■  Hush ! '  she  said,  '  I  know  enough.  You  have 
been  both  brave  and  good.  You  are  the  best  man  I 
know.  Jack  Warder,  and  the  kindest.  I  wish  I  loved 
you.     I  am  not  worthy  of  you.     Now  go  away.' 

"I  obeyed  her.  and  this  was  so  far  the  end  of  a 
miserable  affair.  What  Hugh  will  say  to  Miss  W}Tine, 
God  knows.     I  have  given  a  thorough  rascal  Ms 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      527 

dnes :  h\tt  I  cannot  do  tliis  and  not  tell  him  to  his 
face  what  I  have  said  behind  liis  back. 

'•  This  was  at  night,  bnt  I  had  no  better  counsel  in 
the  morning. 

"I  went  to  find  Mr.  Delanej',  but  he  was  gone, 
ha^^ng.  as  I  lieard  later,  put  on  i)aper  what  he  had 
seen  and  heard  in  the  Provostry." 


XXVIII 


HEN,"  continues  Jack,  "  I  found  Delaney 
had  gone  away,  I  was  in  a  quandary. 
I  by  no  means  desired  to  go  alone  to 
see  Captain  Wynne.  At  last  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  Hugh.  If  there 
came  a  quarrel  it  should  be  mine.  I  resolved  there 
should  be  no  fight  if  I  could  help  it,  and  that  there 
might  be  trouble  if  Hugh  were  first  to  see  his  cousin 
I  felt  sure.  The  small  sword  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, but  the  pistol  was  not.  I  intended  no  such 
ending,  and  believed  I  had  the  matter  well  in  mj'- 
own  hands.  When  I  found  Hugh  at  the  quarters  I 
told  him  quietly  the  whole  story. 

"  That  he  was  in  a  mad  rage  at  his  aunt  I  saw.  I 
hate  to  see  Hugh  smile  in  a  certain  way  he  has,  with 
his  lips  set  close.  He  said  nothing  save  that  he 
would  go  with  me,  and  that  I  was  altogether  in  the 
right.  He  was  reluctant  to  promise  he  would  leave 
me  to  speak  alone,  but  at  last  I  did  get  him  to  say  so. 
"  Mr.  Arthur  Wynne  was  alone  in  his  room  at  the 
inn,  and  would  see  us.  He  was  wi-iting,  and  turned 
from  his  table,  rising  as  we  entered.  He  looked  red 
and  angry,  in  a  soiled  dressing-gown,  and  I  thought 
had  been  drinking.     He  did  not  ask  us  to  be  seated, 

528 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      529 

and  we  remained  standing  until  onr  unpleasant  t^dk 
came  to  a  close. 

"He  said  at  once,  'My  good  cousin,  I  presume  I 
owe  to  vou  the  note  I  have  had  from  Miss  Peniston 
to-day.' 

"  '  You  do  not,'  said  Hugh,  not  looking  at  aU  dis- 
pleased. 

'• '  Indeed  T  I  liad  hoped  you  had  come  to  offer  me 
the  only  sjitisf action  in  life  youi*  shinders  have  left 
me.  !My  health  is  no  longer  such  as  to  forbid  the  use 
of  a  pistol.' 

"  *  Pardon  me,'  said  I,  *  this  is  my  affair,  and  not 
Mr.  "Wynne's.  I  have  had  the  lionour  of  late  to  hear 
Mr.  Delaney  relate  what  pa.ssed  in  the  jail.' 

"  *  Have  you,  indeed  ?  An  old  story,'  said  Arthur 
"Wynne. 

"  *  None  the  less  a  nasty  one.  I  had  also  the  plea- 
sure to  tell  ^liss  Peniston  that  you  suggested  to  the 
traitor  Arnold  to  use  my  friend's  kno^\^l  loyalty  as 
a  safe  means  of  getting  to  Sir  Heniy  Clinton  a  letter 
•whi<^h  wa.s  presuina})ly  a  despatch  as  to  exchange  of 
prisoners,  but  was  really  intended  to  convey  to  Sir 
Henry  the  news  that  the  scoundrel  Arnold  was  will 
lug  to  sell  his  soul  and  betray  his  country.' 

" '  "Who  told  you  this  nonsense  ? '  said  the  captain, 
coming  toward  us. 

"'Major  Andr^*/  said  I.  'You  may  have  my 
friend's  word  for  that.' 

"  *  It  is  a  lie  !  *  he  crir d. 

•* '  Men  about  to  die  do  not  lie,  Mr.  Wynne.     It  is 

true.' 
34 


530      Hugh  Wynne :  Free  Quaker 


"  The  man's  face  changed,  and  he  got  that  slack 
look  about  the  jaw  I  have  heard  Hugh  describe.  To 
my  astonishment  he  did  not  further  insist  on  his 
denial,  but  said  coldly,  '  And  what  then  ? ' 

"  '  Nothing,'  said  I.  '  Having  told  what  I  knew  to 
a  woman,  I  had  no  mind  to  have  you  say  I  had 
slandered  you  behind  your  back.     That  is  aU.' 

"  ^  Is  it,  indeed  ?  And  which  of  you  will  give  me 
the  honour  of  youi-  company  to-morrow  ? ' 

'' '  Neither,'  said  I.   '  We  do  not  meet  men  like  you.' 

"  His  face  flushed.     '  Coward ! '  he  said. 

" '  If  I  am  that,'  said  I,  pretty  cool,  and  shaking  a 
little  after  my  siUy  way,  '  you  know  best,  and  will 
remember,  I  fancy,  for  many  a  day.    Good-morning, 


sir.' 


"  On  this  he  cried  out,  '  By !  this  shall  not 

pass !  I— I  will  post  you  in  every  inn  in  town,  and 
my  cousin  too.     No  man  shall  dare—' 

"  '  Stop  a  little,'  said  Hugh.  '  If  it  comes  to  that 
I  shall  know  what  to  do,  and  well  enough.  I  have 
no  desu-e  to  put  my  own  blood  to  open  shame,  but 
if  this  matter  goes  further,  I  shall  publish  Mr.  De- 
laney's  statement,  and  that,  sir,  will  close  to  you 
every  gentleman's  house  here  and  in  London  too.' 

" '  And  shall  you  like  it  better  to  have  it  known 
that  you  were  General  Arnold's  agent  ? ' 

"  I  saw  Hugh's  face  lose  its  quiet  look,  and  again 
he  smiled.  '  In  that  case,'  he  said,  '  I  should  teU  my 
own  story  and  Mr.  Andre's  to  his  Excellency,  and 
then,  my  good  cousin,  I  should  kill  you  like  a  mad 
dog,  and  with  no  ceremony  of  a  duel.     You  warned 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      531 

me  once  when  I  was  a  mere  boy.  It  is  my  turn  now. 
As  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  I  will  do  as  I  have 
said.' 

"  '  Two  can  play  at  that  game,'  said  Arthur.  Hugh 
made  no  reply. 

''  And  on  this  we  left  the  man  standing,  and  went 
forth  without  another  word. 

"  'I  think  his  fangs  are  drawn,'  said  Hugh.  And 
indeed  that  was  my  opinion.  I  made  up  my  mind, 
however,  that  at  the  least  unpleasant  rumour  of  any 
kind,  I  woidd  take  such  a  hand  in  the  matter  as  would 
save  Hugh  from  ha^'ing  to  go  to  extremities." 

With  the  date  of  a  week  or  so  later  I  find  added : 
"  The  man  thought  better  of  it,  I  dare  say,  when  the 
di-ink  wore  off;  how  much  of  his  folly  was  due  to 
that  I  cannot  tell.  It  was  plain  that  my  dear  Dar- 
thea  had  let  him  go  at  last.  Was  it  because  her  sweet 
pitj'  distressed  her  to  wound  a  man  once  dear  that 
she  was  held  so  long  in  this  bondage  ?  or  was  it  that 
absence,  said  to  be  the  enemy  of  love,  was,  in  a 
woman  of  her  sense  of  honour,  a  reason  why  sho 
should  not  break  her  word  until  she  had  a  more  full 
as.surance  of  being  right? 

"  I  think  he  slowly  lost  his  place  in  the  heart  won 
when  Darthea  was  younger,  and  perhaps  earned 
awav  bv  vain  notions,  which  lost  value  as  time  went 
on.  Such  men  have  for  the  best  of  women  a  charm 
we  cannot  understand." 

I  have  left  Jack  to  tell  a  part  of  my  life  which  I 
am  glad  to  leave  to  another  than  I.  I  heard  no 
more  of  my  cousin  except  that  he  had  made  up 


532      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

his  mind  to  go  home  under  his  parole.  This  did  not 
fill  me  with  grief.  I  had  the  sense  to  know  that  for 
many  a  day  Darthea  were  better  left  alone. 

My  Aunt  Gainor  had  recovered  from  the  remorse 
which,  as  usual  with  her,  followed  upon  some  futile 
attempt  to  improve  the  machinery  of  other  folks' 
fates.  In  fact,  although  Darthea  closed  her  doors 
upon  Mistress  Wynne  and  would  on  no  account  see 
her,  my  aunt  was  already  beginning  to  be  pleased 
with  the  abominable  trap  she  had  set,  and  was  good 
enough  to  tell  me  as  much. 

For  three  days  after  Jack  had  informed  me  as  to 
the  drama  my  aunt  had  planned  I  stayed  away  from 
her,  being  myself  in  no  very  happy  state  of  mind, 
and  unwilling  to  trust  myself.  When  at  last,  of  a 
Saturday  afternoon,  I  came  in  on  Mistress  Wynne, 
she  got  up  from  her  accounts,  which  she  kept  with 
care,  saying  at  once :  "  It  is  a  week  since  you  were 
here,  sir,  and  of  course  I  know  why.  That  long- 
tongued  gh'l-boy  has  been  prating,  and  your  lordship 
is  pleased  to  be  angry,  and  Darthea  is  worse,  and  will 
not  see  me  because  I  had  the  courage  to  do  what  you 
were  afraid  to  do." 

"  Upon  my  word.  Aunt  Gainor,"  said  I,  "  you  are 
a  little  too  bad.  I  was  here  four  days  ago,  and  have 
I  said  an  impatient  word?  If  I  was  angry  I  have 
had  no  chance  to  say  so."    Nor  had  I. 

"  Then  if  you  are  not  angry  you  ought  to  be."  She 
seemed  to  me  bigger  than  ever,  and  to  have  more 
nose  than  usual.  "  You  ought  to  be.  I  made  a  fool 
of  myself,  and  all  for  you;  and  because  I  have 


Hu^h  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      533 

burned  my  fingers  in  pulling  your  goose  out  of  the 
fire,  you  must  get  into  a  passion.  You  have  no  need 
to  smile,  sir.  I  suppose  it  were  finer  to  say  chestnuts, 
but  a  goose  she  is,  and  always  will  be,  and  I  love  her 
like  a  child.  Your  soft-hearted  Excellency  was  to 
see  me  last  week,  and  saying  that  he  had  no  children, 
I,  that  have  no  right  to  any,  said  I  was  as  ill  off,  and 
we  looked  at  each  other  and  said  nothing  for  a  little, 
because  God  had  given  to  neither  the  completeness 
of  life.  Is  he  stem,  sir?  I  don't  think  it.  We 
talked  of  General  Ai-nold,  and  of  poor  Peggy  his 
wife,  and  as  to  all  this  he  was  willing  enough,  and 
frank  too.  De.'^pite  Dr.  Hush  and  ^Mr.  Adams,  he 
can  talk  well  when  he  has  a  mind  to.  But  when  I 
said  a  word  of  poor  Andre,  I  had  better  have  kept 
my  tongue  quiet,  for  he  said  quickly :  '  ^Mistress 
W^^me,  that  is  a  matter  I  vdU.  never  hear  of  willingly. 
I  a.«5k  your  pardon,  nuidam.'  I  coidd  do  no  more 
than  excuse  my  want  of  thought,  and  we  fell  to  dis- 
cussing tol)acco-gro^ving." 

"  But  what  more  of  Darthea  ? "  said  I,  for  jdl  the 
generals  in  the  world  were  to  me  as  nothing  com- 
pared with  one  little  woman. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  more,  except  that  I  am  unhappy. 
I  vnW  never  again  l>e  kind  to  anybody.  I  am  only  a 
miserable,  useless  old  maid."  And  here  she  began  to 
cr\',  and  to  wet  a  fine  laee  handken^hief. 

Just  now  comes  in  saucy  Mi.ss  ]\Iargaret  Chew,— 
we  call  her  Peggy,— and  is  rather  Ihistered  by  my 
aunt  in  tears.  "  O  Mistress  Wynne,"  she  says,  "  I  ]>eg 
pardon.     I—" 


534      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

''  What  for  ? "  says  my  aunt.  "  My  Manx  cat  has 
eaten  the  raspberry  jam.  That  is  all."  Whereon  we 
laugh,  and  the  little  lady,  being  pretty-spoken,  says 
she  wishes  she  was  Mistress  Wynne's  cat,  and  while 
my  aunt  dries  her  eyes  goes  on  to  say,  "Here  is  a 
note  for  you  to  dine  with  us  and  Mr.  Wasliington, 
and  I  was  bid  write  it,  and  so  I  did  on  the  back  of 
the  queen  of  hearts  for  a  compliment,  madam,"  and 
with  this  she  drops  a  curtsey. 

My  aunt,  liking  beauty  and  wit  combined,  kissed 
her,  and  said  she  would  come. 

This  diversion  cleared  the  sky,  which  much  needed 
clearing,  and  Miss  Chew  being  gone  away,  my  aunt 
detained  me  who  would  willingly  have  followed  her. 

After  that  I  comforted  her  a  little  as  to  Darthea, 
and  said  she  could  no  more  keep  up  being  angrj^  than 
a  June  sky  could  keep  cloudy,  and  that,  after  all,  it 
was  just  as  well  Darthea  knew  the  worst  of  the  man. 
I  related,  too,  what  Jack  had  told,  and  said  that  now 
my  cousin  would,  I  thought,  go  away,  and  we— thank 
Heaven ! — be  quit  of  him  forever. 

"And  yet  I  must  see  him  once,"  she  said,  "and 
you  too.  I  have  put  that  deed  in  the  hands  of  James 
Wilson,  and  he  has  taken  counsel  of  oui-  friend  Mr. 
Attorney-General  Chew." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right.  Aunt  Gainor,"  said  I. 
"  The  man  is  bad  past  belief,  but  he  has  lost  Darthea, 
which  is  as  much  punishment  as  I  or  any  could  de- 
sire. I  think  with  you  this  estate  business  should 
some  way  be  settled,  and  if  it  is  to  be  his,  I  have  no 
mind  to  leave  the  thing  in  doubt,  and  if  it  be  mine 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      535 

or  mv  father's,  I  for  one  do  not  want  it.  I  have 
enough,  and  no  Tsish  to  muddle  away  my  life  as  a 
TTelsh  squii-e.'' 

"We  shall  see,"  Siiid  my  aunt,  not  at  all  of  my 
opinion,  as  I  readily  perceived.  "  We  shall  see.  He 
sluill  have  justice  at  our  hands,  and  James  Wilson 
will  be  here  at  four  to-morrow,  and  you  too^  Hugh, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

I  did  not,  and  I  said  so.  She  had  WTitten  my 
cousin  that  she  desired  to  see  him  concerning  the 
deed.  ^V^K*t]ler  from  interest,  or  what,  I  know  not, 
he  had  replied  that  he  would  be  with  her  at  half- 
past  four. 

Thus  it  happened  that  I  was  to  see  Arthur  Wynne 
once  more,  and  indeed  I  felt  that  my  aunt  was  right, 
and  that  it  were  as  well  all  our  accounts  with  this 
man  were  closed.  Just  how  this  would  come  about 
I  knew  not  yet,  but  closed  they  should  be ;  as  to  that 
I  was  fully  ad\'ised  in  my  own  mind. 


XXIX 


|T  four  punctually  arrived  my  friend  the 
famous  lawyer.  He  was  not  a  hand- 
some man,  but  possessed  a  certain  dis- 
tinction, which  he  owed  to  a  strong  face, 
well-modelled  head,  and  a  neatly  pow- 
dered wig,  the  hair  being  tied  back,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  bar,  in  a  black  queue-bag  with,  at  the  end,  a 
broad  black  ribbon.  He  took  the  snuff  my  aunt 
offered,  carefully  dusting  the  excess  off  the  collar  of 
Ms  brown  velvet  coat,  and  sat  down,  saying,  as  he 
took  some  papers  from  a  silk  bag,  that  it  was  alto- 
gether an  interesting  and  curious  question,  this  we 
had  set  before  him.  And  why  had  we  held  this  deed 
so  long  and  said  nothing  ? 

I  told  him  of  my  father's  and  my  grandfather's 
disinclination  to  open  the  matter,  and  why  and  how 
the  estate  had  seemed  of  little  worth,  but  was  now, 
as  I  believed,  more  valuable. 

Hearing  this  he  began  to  question  my  aunt  and 
me.  He  learned  from  our  replies  that  at  the  time 
I  got  the  deed  from  my  father  none  but  my  parent 
had  any  clear  idea  of  what  this  old  family  compact 
meant,  but  that  now  we  were  in  possession  of  such 
facts  as  enabled  us  to  understand  it.   I  then  went  on 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      537 

to  make  plaiu  tliat  my  aunt  was  full  of  the  matter, 
ami  eager,  but  that  I  had  uo  iueliuatiou  at  auy  time 
to  euter  ou  a  long  and  doubtful  litigation  in  another 
country. 

To  myself  I  confessed  that  I  desii-ed  no  immediate 
settlement  until  I  saw  what  iVi-thm*  meant  to  be  at. 
It  was  one  more  hold  ou  a  scamp  still  able  to  do  me 
mischief.  If  it  was  clearly  his  father's  estate  and 
not  oui-s,  he  should  soon  or  late  be  relieved  of  any 
possible  doubt  this  deed  might  stiU  make  as  to  ques- 
tions of  title. 

A\Tien  j\Ii'.  "Wilson  turned  to  my  aunt  he  found  a 
more  warlike  witness.  She  dehghted  in  the  prospect 
of  a  legal  contest. 

"  When  a  child,"  she  said,  ''  I  used  to  hear  of  my 
father's  having  consented  to  make  over  or  give  away 
to  his  brother  "\\'illiam  an  embarrassed  estate,  and 
that  the  crown  officers  were  in  some  way  consenting 
parties  to  the  agreement,  my  father  engaging  him- 
self to  go  to  America  when  let  out  of  jail. 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  she  went  on,  "  that  "Wj-ncote 
was  under  this  arrangement  legally  transferred  by 
my  father  to  his  next  brother.  Our  Welsh  cousins 
must  have  tliis  convej-ance.  It  seems,  from  the  deed 
you  have  examined,  that  privately  a  retrausfer  was 
made,  so  as,  after  all,  to  leave  my  father  possessed  of 
his  ancestral  estate.  If  ever  he  chose  to  reclaim  it 
he  was  free  to  do  so.  The  affair  seems  to  have  be- 
nome  more  or  less  kno\\Ti  to  the  squires  in  tliat  part 
of  Merionetlisliire.  William  was,  we  presume,  un- 
willing to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  his  brother's 


538      HughWjmne:  Free  Quaker 

misfortune,  and  lience  the  arrangement  tlius  made 
between  them." 

"You  state  the  case  admii'ably,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  And  what  else  is  there  ? " 

"  But  little.  Letters  of  affection  and  esteem  came 
and  went  at  long  intervals.  I  recollect  hearing  bits 
of  them,  but  cannot  say  if  the  estate  matter  were  ever 
mentioned.  After  William's  death  the  correspon- 
dence may  or  may  not  have  ceased.  His  brother 
Owen  came  into  the  property  without  interference, 
raid,  dying,  left  a  young  son,  Owen,  who  is  still  alive. 
His  son  Arthur,  Captain  Wynne,  is  to  be  here  to- 
day. There  are  personal  matters  involved,  into  which 
there  is  no  need  to  go.  The  Welsh  branch  is  no 
doubt  desirous  in  some  way  to  clear  the  matter ;  but 
having  held  the  estate  for  a  century,  they  are,  we  may 
presume,  not  very  eager  to  give  it  up.  In  justice 
to  Owen  Wynne,  I  may  say  that  it  is  probable  that 
because  of  a  long  minority  he  only  began,  as  I  think, 
a  few  3^ears  ago  to  have  any  doubt  as  to  his  title.  I 
may  add,"  my  aunt  went  on,  "  that  Captain  Wynne 
came  and  went  during  the  war,  and  that  only  of  late 
has  this  deed  turned  up." 

"  And  your  brother  is  quite  unfit  to  help  us  ?  **  said 
Wilson. 

"Yes;  and  unwilling  if  he  were  able." 

"I  see,  madam,  I  see;  a  difficult  business." 

"  And  this  deed  ? "  said  my  aunt ;  "  you  were  about 
to  speak  of  it." 

"  It  is,"  he  replied,  "  a  simple  act  of  sale  for  one 
shilling,  a  reconveyance  of  Wyncote  from  William 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quakei       539 

10  ITugh.  tlie  date  October  9,  1671.  It  is  in  order, 
aud  duly  witnessed." 

"WeU?" 

'•  As  to  its  present  value,  Mistress  W}ime,  there  is 
a  consensus  of  opinion  between  the  Attorney-General 
and  myself." 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  agree,"  said  my  aunt. 

''  Precisely,  madam.  It  is  our  belief  that  the  lapse 
of  time  has  probably  destroyed  the  title.  There  is 
no  annexed  trust,  on  William's  part,  to  hold  for  his 
brother's  use,  and  the  length  of  undisputed,  or  what 
we  lawyers  call  adverse,  jiossession — something  lil^e 
an  hundi'ed  years  or  more — seems  to  make  it  impos- 
sible for  my  friends  to  oust  the  present  holder.  Am 
I  clear?" 

"  Too  clear,  sir,"  said  my  aunt.     "  Is  that  all  ? " 

"  No ;  I  said,  '  seems.'  There  are  other  questions, 
such  as  the  mention  of  the  matter  in  letters.  If  the 
succeeding  brothers  in  letters  oi*  othorAnse  from  time 
to  time  acknowledged  the  rights  of  Hugh  Wynne, 
that  might  serve  to  keep  alive  the  claim ;  if,  too,  it 
can  be  proved  that  at  any  time  they  paid  over  to 
Hugh  or  his  son,  your  brother,  nuidam,  rents  or  dues, 
as  belonging  to  these  American  claimants,  this  too 
would  serve  to  give  some  validity  to  your  present 
claim.  It  is  a  question  of  dates,  letters,  and  of  your 
pos.ses8ion  of  evidence  in  the  direction  of  repeated 
admis.sions  on  the  i)art  of  the  Welsh  holders." 

My  Aunt  Guinor  was  at  once  confident.  Search 
should  be  made.  She  had  some  remembrance  in  her 
childhood  of  this  aud  that.     In  fact,  my  aunt  never 


54*^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

admitted  the  existence  of  obstacles,  and  commonly- 
refused  to  see  them.  Mr.  Wilson  shook  his  head 
dubiously.  "  There  seems  to  have  been  negligence 
or  a  quite  culpable  indifference,  madam.  The  time 
to  be  covered  by  admissions  is  long,  and  the  statutes 
of  32  Henry  VIII.  and  21  James  I.,  1623,  do,  I  fear, 
settle  the  matter.  The  lapse  in  the  continuity  of 
evidence  will  be  found  after  the  death  of  Hugh. 
Twenty  years  will  suffice,  and  I  am  forced  to  admit 
that  your  claim  seems  to  me  of  small  value.  It  was 
simply  an  estate  given  away,  owing  to  want  of  the 
simplest  legal  advice." 

"  Wait  until  I  look  through  our  papers,"  said  my 
aunt.  *'  We  are  not  done  with  it  yet,  nor  shaU  be,  if 
I  have  my  way,  until  the  courts  have  had  a  chance 
to  decide." 

''It  win  be  mere  waste  of  money,  my  dear  lady. 
Now,  at  least,  you  can  do  nothing.  The  war  is  not 
over,  and  when  it  is,  none  but  an  English  court  can 
settle  the  title.  I  confess  it  seems  to  be  a  case  for 
amicable  compromise." 

"  There  shall  be  none— none,"  said  my  aunt. 

"And  we  aro  just  where  we  began,"  said  I. 

"  Not  quite,"  he  returned.  "  You  may  have  a  case, 
but  it  seems  to  me  a  weak  one,  and  may  lie  in 
chancery  a  man's  lifetime.  I,  as  a  fi-iend  as  well  as 
a  lawyer,  knowing  you  have  no  need  of  the  estate, 
hesitate  to  advise  you  to  engage  in  a  suit  of  eject- 
ment. I  should  rather  counsel— ah,  that  may  be  Mr. 
Wynne." 

It  was  a  clamorous  knock  at  the  haJl  door,  which 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker       541 

caused  Mr.  Wilson  to  cut  short  his  advice  with  the 
statemeut  that  it  \Yould  need  longer  discussion,  and 
that  tliis  must  be  the  other  party. 

It  was,  in  fact,  my  cousin,  who  was  set  down  in  a 
chair,  as  I  saw  by  a  glance  through  the  window. 
When  Jack  and  I  had  seen  him  at  his  inn  he  had 
been  a  little  in  hquor,  and  wore  a  sort  of  long  chintz 
bedgown  wrapper,  with  his  waistcoat  buttoned  awry 
—not  a  veiy  nice  figure.  lie  was  now  Arthur  Wynne 
at  his  best.  He  stood  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  as 
beautiful  a  piece  of  manliood  as  ever  did  the  devil's 
work.  His  ta^te  in  all  matters  of  dress  and  outer 
conduct  was  beyond  dispute,  and  for  tliis  family 
meeting  he  had  apparently  made  ready  with  unusual 
care.  Indeed  this,  my  last  remembrance  of  Ai'thur 
W}Tine,  is  of  a  figure  so  striking  that  I  cannot  resist 
to  say  just  how  he  looked.  His  raiment  was  costly 
enough  to  have  satisfied  Polonius;  if  it  bore  any 
relation  to  his  purse,  I  know  not.  It  was  not  "  ex- 
pressed in  fancy,"  as  was  that  of  the  macaroni  dandy 
of  those  early  days.  He  knew  })etter.  As  he  stood 
he  carried  in  his  left  hand  a  dark  beaver  edged  with 
gold  lace.  His  wig  was  small,  and  with  side  rolls 
well  powdered,  the  queue  tied  with  a  lace-bordered 
red  ribbon.  In  front  a  full  Mechlin  lace  jabot,  \nth 
the  white  wig  above,  set  his  regular  features  and 
dark  skin  in  a  frame,  as  it  were,  his  paleness  and 
a  look  of'mohinclioly  in  the  eyes  helping  the  natu- 
ral  ]>eauty  and  distinction  of  a  face  high  bred  and 
haughty.  Tlic  white  silk  flowered  waistcoat,  the 
bunch  of  gold  seala  below  it,  the  claret-tinted  velvet 


542      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


coat  and  breeches,  tiie  black  silk  clocked  bose  with 
gold  buckles  at  ankle  and  knee,  and  a  silver-hilted 
dress-sword  in  a  green  shagreen  sheath,  complete  my 
pictm-e.  I  wish  you  to  see  him  as  I  saw  him,  that  in  a 
measure  you  may  comprehend  why  his  mere  personal 
charms  were  such  as  to  attract  and  captivate  women. 

He  came  forward  with  his  right  hand  on  his  heart 
and  bowed  to  my  aunt,  who  swept  him  a  space-fiUing 
curtsey,  as  he  said  quite  pleasantly,  "  Good-afternoon, 
Cousin  Gain  or ;  your  servant,  Mr.  Wilson."  To  me 
he  bent  slightly,  but  gave  no  other  greeting.  It  was 
aU  easy,  tranquil,  and  without  sign  of  emban-assment. 
As  he  spoke  he  moved  toward  the  table,  on  wliich 
Mr.  Wilson  had  laid  his  papers  and  bag.  Now,  as 
alwaj's,  a  certain  deliberate  feline  grace  was  in  all 
his  movements. 

'^  For  a  truth,  he  is  a  beauty/'  said  my  Aunt  Gai- 
nor  after  our  meeting  was  over.  "  And  well-propor- 
tioned, but  no  bit  of  him  Wynne.  He  has  not  our 
build."     Nor  had  he. 

"  Pray  be  seated,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  have  asked 
my  friend  and  counsel,  Mr.  James  Wilson,  to  be 
present,  that  he  may  impartially  set  before  you  a 
family  matter,  in  which  youi-  father  may  have  inter- 
est. My  nephew,  Hugh  Wynne,  is  here  at  my  earnest 
solicitation.  I  regret  that  Mr.  Chew  is  unable,  by 
reason  of  engagements,  to  do  me  a  like  favour.  Mr, 
Wilson  will  have  the  kindness  to  set  before  you  the 
natui'c  of  the  case." 

Misti-ess  Wynne,  sitting  straight  and  tall  in  a  high 
cap,  spoke  with  dignified  calmness. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Qiuiker       ^43 

"At  yoiir  service,  madam,"  said  the  lawj'er,  look- 
ing Arthur  over  with  the  quick  giauce  of  a  ready- 
observer.  Before  he  could  go  ou  to  do  as  he  was 
bidden  I  found  my  chance  to  say,  "  You  will  be  so 
good,  Mr.  Wilson,  as  to  state  Mr.  Owen  Wynne's  case, 
as  well  as  our  own,  with  entire  frankness ;  we  liave 
no  desire  to  wrong  any,  and  least  of  all  one  of  our 
blood." 

"I  think  I  understand  vou  fullv,"  said  Wilson. 
"  A  deed  has  been  put  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Attorney- 
General  Chew  and  myself,  and  as  to  its  value  and 
present  validity  an  opinion  has  been  asked  by  Mis- 
tress Wynne  and  her  nephew." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Arthur ;  "  is  not  my  Cousin 
John  tlie  proper  person  to  consider  this  question  V  " 

''Assuredly,"  rotiumed  Mr.  Wilson,  "if  his  state 
of  mind  i)ermitted  either  his  presence  or  an  opinion. 
No  interests  will  be  affected  by  his  absence,  nor  can 
we  do  more  than  acquaint  those  who  are  now  here 
with  what,  as  lawj'ers,  we  think." 

"  I  see,"  said  Arthur.     "  Pray  go  on." 

"  This  deed  seems  to  convey  to  my  client's  gi-and- 
father— that  is  to  sav,  Mistress  Wynne's  father— 
certain  lands  situate  in  Merionethshu'e,  Wales.  I 
understand  that  you,  sir,  represent  the  present 
holder." 

"I  am,"  said  Arthur,  "the  son  of  the  gentleman 
now  in  po.ssessi(»n  of  Wyncote,  and  have  full  j)ermis- 
sion  to  act  for  him.  If,  indeed,  you  desire  further 
U)  learn  on  what  authority—" 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  interposed  WUsou.    "  Your 


544      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

presence  suffices ;  no  more  is  needed.  This  meeting 
commits  no  one." 

"I  was  about  to  ask  the  date  of  this  document," 
said  Arthur. 

"  Certainly ;  here  it  is."  And  so  sajdng  the  lawyer 
spread  the  deed  out  on  the  table.  "  It  is  a  convey- 
ance from  William  Wynne  to  Hugh  of  that  name ; 
the  date,  1671,  October  9 ;  the  witnesses  are  Henry 
Owen  and  Thomas  ap  Roberts.  It  is  voluminous. 
Do  j^ou  desire  to  hear  it  ? " 

"  No ;  oh  no  !     What  next  ?  " 

"We  believe,"  continued  the  lawyer,  "that  this 
deed  has  ceased  to  have  effect,  owing  to  lapse  of  time 
and  the  appearance— pray  note  my  words— the  ap- 
pearance of  undisputed  ownership  by  the  younger 
branch.  Neither  is  there  any  trust  to  hold  the 
estate  for  Hugh ;  it  is  a  mere  conveyance." 

"There  can  be,  of  course,  no  doubt,"  returned 
Arthur—  "  I  mean  as  to  a  century  of  unquestioned 
possession." 

"  I  am  not  secure  as  to  the  point  you  make,"  said 
Mr.  Wilson,  courteously.  "I  cannot  now  decide. 
I  am  asked  to  state  the  matter  impartially.  My 
clients  wish  justice  done  to  all,  and  will  take  no 
unfair  advantage.  It  may  be  you  have  no  case. 
There  may  have  passed  frequent  letters  on  both 
sides,  admitting  the  claim  or  reasserting  it,  and  thus 
keeping  it  alive.  Rents  may  have  been  paid.  Facts 
like  these  may  open  questions  as  to  the  length  of 
undisputed  holding.  Only  your  own  courts  can  de- 
cide it,  and  that  with  aU  the  evidence  before  them." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      545 

"  I  am  obligred  by  your  frankness/'  said  ray  cousin. 
"  I  had  hoped  to  see  the  matter  tuUy  settled." 

"That  will  never  be,"  said  my  aunt,  "  until  I  have 
carried  it  through  every  court  in  Eughind." 

"  As  you  plejise,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Mr.  Wynne,"  said  I,  "  while  my  father  lives  we 
shall  do  nothing;  nor  even  afterward,  perhaps.  1 
do  not  want  the  money,  nor  the  old  home.  What  is 
done  may  depend  much  on  your  own  actions,  sir." 
I  had  no  desire  to  lose  tliis  hold  on  him.  As  I  spoke 
I  saw  him  look  up  astonished,  as  was  also,  I  thought, 
the  lawj'er,  who  knew  nothing  of  our  quarrels. 

"  If,"  said  I,  "  you  had  come  to  us  frankly  at  first, 
and  stated  wliv  vou  came,  we  should  have  said  what 
I  now  say.  No,  I  should  have  said  far  more.  I 
behove  this  ends  the  matter  for  the  present."  My 
aunt  lifted  her  hand,  but  I  added,  "  I  pray  you  let  it 
rest  here,  aunt,"  and  for  a  wonder  she  held  her  peace. 

Arthur,  too,  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  his  worse 
or  better  angel,  I  know  not  which,  prevailed,  and 
quietly  saluting  us  all,  he  rose  and  took  his  leave. 

"  We  shall  see  when  this  war  is  over,"  said  my 
aunt,  taking  the  deed.  "  Many  thanks,  Mr.  Wilson ; 
I  should  like  to  have  your  opinion  in  writmg." 

*'I  shall  send  it  in  a  week  or  two.      Mr.  Arthur 

Wynne  set*nis  to  have  come  over,  as  I  judge  from 

what  he  said,  with  autliority  to  act  for  his  father. 

Why  he  did  not  at  once  relate  his  errand  I  cannot 

Bee.    Had  you  had  no  deed  it  would  have  closed  the 

matter.     If  he  found  you  had  one  he  would  have 

been  only  in  the  position  he  is  now  in  to-day." 
35 


54^      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"I  fancy  lie  may  have  been  fearful  and  over- 
cautious, not  comprehending  the  nature  of  those  he 
had  to  deal  with,"  said  I.  "  You  must  have  known 
him  as  I  do,  Mr.  Wilson,  to  understand  his  actions. 
I  was  sorry  you  did  not  let  him  tell  us  what  powers 
he  really  had.     I  was  curious." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  interrupted  him.  It  was  a  mistake." 
And  so  saying  he  rose. 

"It  shall  not  rest  here,"  said  my  aunt.  "Some- 
thing shall  be  done."  And  on  this  I  too  went  away, 
declining  further  talk. 

When  Arthur  came  over  to  learn  what  he  could 
as  to  their  title  to  Wyncote,  he  failed  to  see  that  we 
were  people  whom  no  prospect  of  gain  could  lead 
into  the  taking  of  an  advantage.  He  thus  lost  the 
chance  a  little  honest  directness  would  have  given 
him.  When  later  my  father  threw  in  his  way  the 
opportunity  of  absolute  security  as  to  the  title,  the 
temptation  to  get  secretly  from  him  a  legal  transfer, 
or— God  knows— perhaps  the  power  to  destroy  the 
deed,  was  too  much  for  a  morally  weak  and  quite 
reckless  nature.  I  was  the  sole  obstacle,  or  I  seemed 
to  be.  We  loved  the  same  woman ;  she  had  begun 
to  doubt  her  English  lover.  If  I  had  died  he  had 
become  assured,  not  only  of  the  possession  of  Wyn- 
cote, but  of  being  ultimately  my  father's  heir. 

Of  this  Jack  writes :  "  Here  was  a  whole  brigade 
of  temptations,  and  he  could  not  stand  it.  He  would 
have  broken  that  tender  heart  I  loved.  God  help  me ! 
I  think  I  should  have  killed  him  before  he  had  the 
cruel  chance." 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      547 

If  to  tlie  estate  and  other  TV'orldly  baits  was 
addt'd  the  remembrance  of  the  blow  a  mere  boy 
gave,  I  do  not  know.  It  is  certain  that  at  last  he 
hated  me,  and  as  sure  that  I  had  as  little  love  for 
him. 


XXX 

ARLY  in  March  of  1782  Jack  and  I  con- 
eluded  that  the  war  was  over,  or  was  to  be 
but  a  waiting  game,  as  indeed  it  proved. 
After  some  thought  over  the  matter  we 
both  resigned,  and  as  it  was  desired  to 
lessen  the  hst  of  of6.cers,  we  were  promptly  released 
from  service. 

On  March  22  his  Excellency  rode  away  from  town 
under  escort  of  Captain  Morris's  troop  of  light  horse. 
I  went  along  as  far  as  Burlington,  being  honoured 
when  I  left  by  the  personal  thanks  of  the  general, 
and  the  kind  wish  that  I  might  discover  it  to  be 
convenient  to  visit  him  at  Mount  Vernon. 

April  "v^'as  come,  and  we  gladly  turned  again  to 
the  duties  which  awaited  us  both.  His  Excellency 
had  gone  to  watch  Sir  Guy  Carleton  penned  up  in 
New  York.  Congress  wrangled,  our  gay  world  ate 
and  danced,  and  the  tardy  war  fell  to  such  slackness 
that  it  was  plain  to  all  a  peace  must  soon  come, 
although  we  were  yet  to  see  another  winter  pass 
before  the  obstinate  Dutchman  on  the  EngHsh 
throne  gave  up  a  lost  game. 

In  July  my  father  died  of  a  sudden  afflux  of  blood 

548 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      549 

to  the  head  ;  find  although  he  was  blooded  by  Dr. 
Rush  several  times,  never  was  so  tiw  bettered  as  to 
speak  to  me.  O11I3'  once,  as  I  am  told  is  not  rare, 
he  so  revived  when  in  the  very  article  of  death  as 
to  look  about  and  say,  thinking  my  hand  in  Ids  was 
my  mother's,  that  she  must  not  grieve  for  him. 

Alas !  he  had  been  as  one  dead  to  me  for  many  a 
year.  I  wore  no  black  for  him,  because  I  was  and 
am  of  the  opinion  of  Friends  that  this  custom  is  a 
foolish  one.  My  aunt,  was  ill  pleased  at  mj'  decision, 
and  put  herself  and  all  her  house  in  mourning. 
None  the  less,  for  my  part,  did  I  regret,  not  so  much 
the  natural,  easy  death,  as  the  sad  fact  it  seemed  to 
fet<jh  back  so  plainly,  that  from  my  youth  up  here 
were  two  people,  neither  of  them  unkindly  or  ill 
natured,  who  were  all  through  life  as  completely 
apart  as  if  no  tie  of  a  common  blood  had  pledged 
them  to  affection. 

I  saw— I  can  see  now— the  gray  and  drab  of  the 
great  concourse  of  Friends  who  stood  about  that 
open  grave  on  Arch  street.  I  can  see,  too,  under 
the  .shadow  of  his  broad  gray  beaver,  the  simple, 
sincere  face  of  James  Pemberton,  my  fathei^'s 
lifelong  friend.  He  spoke,  as  was  the  custom  of 
Friends,  at  the  grave,  there  l^eing  no  other  cere- 
mony, an  omission  of  which  I  confess  I  do  not 
approve,     ^luch  moved,  he  said: 

"  Our  friend,  John  Wynne,  departed  this  life  on 
the  23d  of  July  of  this  year  [being  1782].  For  many 
years  he  hatli  carried  the  cross  of  afllicting  sickness, 
and  hath  unceasingly  borne  testimony  to  the  doc- 


550      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

trine  and  conduct  nplield  of  Friends.  He  was  a 
man  of  great  abilities,  and,  like  our  lamented  William 
Penn,  of  an  excellent  gravity  of  disposition,  without 
dissimulation,  extensive  in  charity,  having  neither 
malice  nor  ungratefulness.  He  was  apt  without 
forwardness,  yet  weighty,  and  not  given  to  unseemly 
levity.  The  wise  shall  cherish  the  thought  of  him, 
and  he  shall  be  remembered  with  the  just."  And 
this  was  all.  One  by  one  they  took  my  hand,  and 
with  my  Aunt  Gain  or  I  walked  away.  I  closed  the 
old  home  a  day  or  two  later,  and  went  with  my 
aunt  to  her  farm. 

I  had  not  seen  Darthea  for  many  a  day.  "  Let 
her  alone,"  said  my  aunt.  I  think  Jack  was  often 
with  her;  but  he  knew  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  I 
asked  no  questions.  At  last,  a  week  after  the  fu- 
neral, I  recognised  her  hand  in  the  address  of  a 
note  to  me.     I  read  it  with  a  throbbing  heart. 

"  Sir  :  I  have  heard  of  youi*  great  loss  with  sorrow, 
for  even  though  your  father  has  been  this  long  while 
as  one  lost  to  you,  I  do  think  that  the  absence  of  a 
face  we  love  is  so  much  taken  from  the  happiness  of 
life.  You  know  that  your  aunt  hurt  me  as  few  could, 
but  now  I  am  not  sorry  for  what  then  befell.  The 
thought  of  death  brings  others  in  its  train,  and  I 
have  reflected  much  of  late.  I  shall  go  to  see  Mis- 
tress Wynne  to-day,  and  will  you  come  and  see  me 
when  it  shall  appear  to  you  convenient?  I  am  for 
a  little  at  Stenton,  with  Madam  Logan." 

Would  I,  indeed  ?  My  dear  old  Lucy,  a  little  stiff 
in  the  knees,  carried  me  well,  and  seemed  to  share 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      551 


my  good  Inniiour  as  I  rode  down  the  long  road  from 
Cbcstuut  Hill. 

The  great  trees  about  the  home  James  Logan 
built  were  in  full  leaf,  and  under  theii*  shade  a  black 
groom  held  two  horses  as  I  rode  up.  Darthea  came 
out,  and  was  in  the  saddle  before  she  saw  me. 

The  rich  bloom  of  health  was  again  on  her  cheek, 
and  deepened  a  little  as  I  went  towai'd  her. 

I  said  I  was  glad  to  see  her,  and  was  she  going  to 
my  Aunt  Gaiuor's?  If  so,  and  if  it  were  agreeable 
to  her,  the  groom  might  stay.  I  would  ride  back 
with  her.  Then  Mrs.  Logan,  at  the  door,  said  this 
would  suit  very  well,  as  she  needed  the  man  to  go  to 
town.  After  this  we  rode  away  under  the  trees  and 
up  the  Germantown  road,  Miss  Peuiston  pushing 
her  horse,  and  we  not  able  on  this  account  to  talk. 
At  last,  when  I  declared  Lucy  too  old  to  keep  up  the 
pace,  the  good  beast  fell  to  walking. 

Soon  we  went  by  the  graveyard  where  the  brave 
Euglislmian,  General  Aguew,  lay ;  and  here  Darthea 
was  of  a  mind  to  be  told  again  of  that  day  of  glory 
and  defeat.  At  the  mai'ket-house,  where  School-house 
Lane  comes  out  into  the  main  street  of  German- 
to^vn,  she  must  hear  of  the  wild  strife  in  the  fog  and 
smoke,  and  at  last  of  how  I  was  hurt ;  and  so  we 
rode  on.  Slie  liad  gotten  again  her  gay  spirits,  and 
was  full  of  mirth,  anon  serious,  or  for  a  moment 
sad.  Op])osite  Cliveden  I  had  to  talk  of  the  fight, 
and  .say  wliere  were  Jaek  and  SiUlivan  and  Wayne, 
although  Jack  more  concerned  her.  As  we  rode  up 
the  slope  of  Mount  Airy  I  broke  a  long  silence. 


^^2      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 


"  Darthea,"  said  I,  "  is  it  yes,  or  always  no  ?  " 

"Will  you  never  be  contented?"  she  returned. 
'•'  Is  n't  it  mean  to  say  these  things  now  ?  I  can't  get 
away.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  marry  Jack,  to  be  rid 
of  you  both." 

"  Is  it  yes  or  wo,  Darthea  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  me  in  the  face.  I  am  a 
strong  man,— I  was  so  then,— but  a  great  rush  of 
blood  seemed  to  go  to  my  head,  and  then  I  went 
pale,  as  she  told  me  later,  and  I  clutched  at  Lucy's 
mane.  I  felt  as  if  I  might  fall,  so  much  was  I  moved 
by  this  gi*eat  news  of  joy. 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  cried. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said ;  "  it  is  love !  Thy  dear  love  I 
cannot  bear.     Thank  God,  Darthea !  " 

"And  do  you  love  me  so  much,  Hugh?  I— I  did 
not  know."     She  was  like  a  sweet,  timid  child. 

I  could  only  say,  "  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  Oh,  Hugh ! "  she  cried.  "  How  can  you  forgive 
me  ?  But  I  am  not  like  other  women.  My  word — 
you  will  know— and  then  you  will  forgive  me." 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  her  face  all  aglow. 

"  There  is— there  never  will  be  anything  to  forgive." 

"But  I  was  so  foolish— and— I  was  so  foolish." 

"  Let  us  forget,  Darthea.  I  have  thy  love.  God 
knows  it  is  enough." 

"  Thank  you,  Hugh.  Don't  speak  to  me  for  a  lit- 
tle, please."  And  under  the  warm  August  afternoon 
sky  we  rode  on  at  a  foot-pace,  and  said  no  word 
more  until  we  came  to  my  aunt's  door.  Then  Dar- 
thea slyly  put  on  her  riding-mask,  and  we  went  in. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      553 

My  aunt  had  her  in  her  gri-eat  arms  in  a  moment. 
The  mask  fell,  and  then  my  aunt  held  her  off  a  little, 
looked  from  her  to  me,  and  said,  "  Has  he  made  you 
cry,  sweetheart  ?  He  always  was  a  fool.  I  am  very 
g:lad.  You  have  made  an  old  woman's  heart  sing 
with  joy.  It  is  not  your  fault.  Hugh's  silly  faee 
■was  enough.  Lord  !  girl,  how  pretty  you  are !  Do 
you  suppose  I  never  was  in  love  ?  I  never  was,  but 
I  know  the  signs."  Darthea,  released,  was  pleased 
enough  to  be  let  go  up  to  my  aunt's  room.  By  and 
by  she  came  do^vn,  saucy  and  smiling,  and  later 
came  Ja<?k,  when  my  aunt,  being  too  happy  to  hold 
her  dear  old  tongue,  told  him,  while  poor  Darthea 
looked  at  him  \Wth  a  tender  gra\dty  I  did  not  under- 
stand. He  went  away  very  soon,  saj-ing  he  had  busi- 
ness in  to^vn,  and  this  is  what  he  writ  that  night : 

"  And  so  she  will  have  my  Hugh,  and  he  the  best 
lady  alive.  I  pray  the  good  God  to  keep  them  from 
all  the  sorrows  of  this  world.  If  he  love  her  as  I 
love  her,  she  can  ask  no  gi-eater  love ;  and  he  will — 
he  cannot  help  it.  Now  I  will  write  no  more.  God 
bless  thee,  Darthea !  "  It  was  thus  a  gallant  gentle- 
man loved  in  tho.se  stormy  days. 

And  here,  with  this  dear  name,  his  records  close, 
and  there  is  the  date  of  August  1,  1782,  and  a  line 
drawn  Tindernoatli. 

The  new  relation  soon  to  bo  established  between 
ns  of  necessity  })rought  Madam  Peniston  and  my 
aunt  int^  frequent  council.  There  were  matters  of 
dress  to  be  considerately  dealt  with,  and  I  was  told 
it  must  be  six  months  before  orders  could  be  filled 


554      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

from  France,  England  being  just  now  out  of  the 
question.  Where  the  mysteries  of  women's  gar- 
ments are  concerned  a  man  hath  no  better  resort 
than  to  submit  humbh',  as  to  a  doctor  or  a  lawyer. 
Here  of  a  certainty  knowledge  is  power,  and  as  to 
this  matter,  a  man  had  best  learn  to  conceal  amaze- 
ment under  a  show  of  meekness. 

When  I  ventured  to  remonstrate  Darthea  looked 
serious,  and  would  I  ever  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her  unless  she  had  laid  snares  of  gown  and  ribbon, 
and  how  was  my  love  to  be  kept  if  for  the  future 
there  were  not  provided  a  pretty  variety  of  such 
vanities  ?  Even  my  Aunt  Gainor  refused  to  discuss 
the  question.  I  must  wait ;  and  as  this  was  the  sin- 
gle occasion  known  to  me  when  she  had  declined  a 
hand  at  the  game  of  talk,  I  began  to  perceive  that 
ignorance  is  weakness,  and  so  at  last,  calmly  con- 
fessing defeat,  I  waited  until  those  consulting  chose 
to  advise  me,  the  patient,  of  their  conclusions. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Peniston  had  ceased  to  grieve 
over  the  lost  lover  and  the  great  estate— it  never 
was  really  great. 

My  aunt  could  not  let  go  of  the  notion  that  we 
must  have  a  fight  for  Wyncote.  This  tendency  to 
become  possessed  by  an  idea,  I  came  to  see  later, 
was  a  family  trait,  of  value  if  wisely  kept  in  due 
place,  but  capable,  also,  of  giving  rise  to  mischief. 
My  aunt,  in  some  of  her  talks  with  Darthea's  rela- 
tive, heard  of  that  good  dame's  past  regrets  at  the 
loss  of  a  title  and  estate  and  a  British  lover,  and  of 
how  flattered  we  ought  to  be. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      ^^^ 

I  presume  poor  Madam  Peuiston  was  well  and 
sharply  answered;  but  it  was  not  in  my  Aunt 
Gainor  not  to  boast  a  little  of  how  we  were  the 
elder  branch,  and  of  what  might  chance  in  the  fairy 
future.  TMien  Mrs.  Penistou  saw  the  deed,  and  was 
told  of  the  search  my  aunt  was  making  for  letters 
to  support  our  claims,  she  was  too  excited  not  to  let 
out  enough  to  disturb  Darthea,  and  this  although 
my  aimt  told  Mrs.  Penistou  of  my  dislike  of  the 
whole  matter,  and  how  it  was  never  to  be  mentioned 
or  known  to  any  imtil  more  evidence  came  to  light. 
Thus  cautioned,  she  was  just  mysterious  enough  to 
excite  my  quick-witted  maid,  who  was  as  ciu'ious  as 
any  of  her  sex. 

Wlien  of  course  she  questioned  me,  and  some 
notion  of  the  mischief  on  hand  came  thus  to  my 
knowledge,  I  saw  at  once  how  it  might  annoy  Dar- 
thea. I  said  that  it  merely  concerned  a  question 
in  di.spute  between  Arthur  Wynne's  family  and  my 
ov^^l,  and  ought  not,  I  thought,  to  be  discussed  just 
now.  The  mere  name  of  her  former  lover  was 
enough  to  silence  her.  and  so  I  begged  her  to  put 
it  a.side.  She  was  willing  enougli.  I  had  happier 
things  on  my  own  mind,  :nid  no  present  desire  to 
stir  in  the  matter.  In  fact,  I  -s\'ished  most  earnestly 
to  keep  it  awhile  from  Darthea.  How  much  she 
knew  I  could  not  tell,  but  I  was  well  aware  that  she 
was,  above  all  things,  sensitive  as  to  any  roferonce  to 
Arthur  Wynne.  That  she  had  once  loved  him  Anth 
the  honest  love  of  a  strong  nature  I  knew,  and 
Bomewhat  hated  to  remember  j  but  this  love  was 


^^6      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

dead,  and  if  the  sorry  ghost  of  it  haunted  her  at 
times,  I  could  not  wonder.  My  aunt  had  once  or 
twice  mentioned  him  casually,  and  each  time  Dar- 
thea  had  flushed,  and  once  had  asked  her  never  to 
speak  of  him  again.  I  meant  soon — or  more  likely 
later— to  discuss  the  matter  quietly  with  Darthea ; 
for  then,  as  always,  I  held  to  the  notion  that  the 
wife  should  have  her  share  in  every  grave  decision 
affecting  the  honour  and  interests  of  her  husband. 

After  this  I  spoke  most  anxiously  of  the  matter 
to  my  aunt,  and  entreated  her  to  quiet  Madam  Pen- 
iston,  and  to  let  the  thing  rest  in  my  hands.  This 
she  declared  most  reasonable,  but  I  knew  her  too 
well  not  to  feel  uneasy,  and  indeed  the  result  justi- 
fied my  fears. 

My  aunt,  as  I  have  said,  had  gone  wild  a  bit  over 
that  deed,  and  when  Darthea  was  not  with  her  was 
continually  discussing  it,  and  reading  over  and  over 
Mr.  Wilson's  opinion.     I  got  very  tired  of  it  aU. 

One  night,  late  in  October,  I  rode  out  from  town, 
and,  after  a  change  of  dress,  went  into  the  front 
room  with  the  dear  thought  in  my  mind  of  her 
whom  I  should  see. 

A  welcome  fire  of  blazing  hickory  logs  alone  lighted 
up  the  large  room,  for  my  aunt  hked  thus  to  sit  at 
or  after  twilight,  and  as  yet  no  candles  had  been  set 
out.  As  I  stood  at  the  door,  the  leaping  flames, 
flaring  up,  sent  flitting  athwart  the  floor  queer 
shadows  of  tall-backed  ehaii*s  and  spindle-legged 
tables.  The  great  form  of  my  Aunt  Gainor  filled 
the  old  Penn  chair  I  had  brought  from  home,  liking 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      ^^y 

myself  to  use  it.  Just  now,  as  usual,  she  was  sittiug 
erect,  for  never  did  I  or  any  one  else  see  her  use  for 
support  the  back  of  a  chair.  At  her  feet  lay  Dar- 
thea,  with  lier  head  in  the  old  lady's  lap— a  pretty 
picture,  I  thought. 

Diirthea  leaped  \i\)  to  run  to  nie.  My  aunt  said 
nothing,  not  so  much  as  *'  Good-evening,"  but  went 
out,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  came  back,  exclaim- 
ing, in  an  excited  way,  that  she  had  waited  all  day, 
and  now  at  last  she  had  great  news,  and  we  must 
hear  it. 

I  was  bewildered,  until  I  saw  she  had  in  one  hand 
the  deed  and  in  the  other  a  bundle  of  letters.  Then 
I  knew  what  a  distressful  business  was  to  be  faced, 
and  that  it  was  vain  to  cry  "  Stop  !  " 

*'  Wliat  is  it  ? "  said  Darthea. 

"  It  can  wait,"  said  I.     "  I  insist,  Aunt  Gainor." 

"  Nonsense !  The  girl  must  know  soon  or  late, 
and  why  not  now  ?  " 

"  I  must  hear,  Hugh,"  said  Darthea. 

"Verj'  well,"  I  returned,  as  angiy  with  the  old 
ladv  as  ever  I  had  been  in  all  niv  life. 

"It  is  a  thing  to  settle," cried  Aunt  Gainor, in  her 
strong  voice.  "  We  must  agree— agree  on  it— all  of 
us." 

"  Go  on,"  said  I.  And  Darthea  insisting,  I  said 
nothing  nior<',  and  was  only  concerned  to  be  done 
with  it  once  for  alL 

"The  war  will  soon  end,"  said  my  aunt,  "and 
something  must  be  done.  These  letters  I  have  come 
upon  put  a  new  face  on  the  matter.     I  have  not  yet 


558       Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

read  all  of  them.  But  among  them  are  letters  to 
your  grandfather  of  great  importance." 

I  was  vexed  as  I  have  rarely  been.  "I  never 
doubted,  Aunt  Gainoi-,  that  in  my  grandfather's  life 
some  acknowledgments  may  have  passed  ;  but  it  is 
the  long  lapse  of  time  covered  by  my  father's  life 
which  will  fail  as  to  e\ddence." 

"  It  shall  not !  "  she  cried.  "  You  shall  be  mistress 
of  Wyncote,  Darthea.     These  letters—" 

"  I  ?    Wvneote  ? "  said  Darthea. 

''  Let  us  discuss  them  alone,  aunt,"  I  urged,  hoping 
to  get  the  matter  put  aside  for  a  time. 

"  No ;  I  will  wait  no  longer.  I  am  deeply  con- 
cerned, and  I  wish  Darthea  to  hear." 

"  Why  not  refer  it  to  Mr.  "Wilson  ?  Unless  these 
letters  cover  far  more  of  a  century  than  seems  likely, 
they  cannot  alter  the  case." 

"  That  is  to  be  determined,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  I 
shall  go  to  England  and  settle  it  there.  You  shall 
be  Wynne  of  Wyncote  yet,  sir." 

"  What !  what !  "  cried  Darthea.  "  What  does  all 
this  mean  ?  TeU  me,  Hugh.  Why  is  it  kept  from 
me?"  It  was  plain  that  soon  or  late  she  must 
know. 

"  My  aunt  thinks  Wyncote  belongs  to  us.  There 
is  an  old  deed,  and  my  aunt  will  have  it  we  must  go 
to  law  over  it.  It  is  a  doubtful  matter,  Darthea — 
as  to  the  right,  I  mean.  I  have  no  wish  to  stir  it  up, 
nor  to  leave  my  own  land  if  we  were  to  win  it" 

I  saw  Darthea  flush,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  at 
my  aunt's  side. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      559 

"  Stop !  "  said  I.  "  Remember,  dear,  I  have  not  hid 
it  fi'oni  you.  I  desired  onlv  that  some  dav  vou  and 
I  shoidd  consider  it  alone  and  tranquilly.  But  now 
there  is  no  help  for  it,  and  you  must  hear.  The 
deed-  " 

''  Is  this  it  ? "  she  broke  in,  taking  the  yellow  parch- 
ment off  the  table  where  my  aunt  had  laid  it. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  my  aunt  j  "  and  you  must  bring 
Hugh  to  his  senses  about  it,  my  dear.  It  is  a  great 
estate,  and  rich,  and  the  old  house— we  have  its  pic- 
ture, Darthea.  IMadam  Wynne  of  Wyncote,  I  shaU 
come  and  visit  you."  The  old  lady  was  flushed,  and 
foolishly  eager  over  tliis  vain  ambition. 

Darthea  stood  in  the  brilliant  firelight,  her  ej'es  set 
on  the  deed.     "  I  cannot  understand  it,"  she  said. 

"I  will  send  for  candles,"  cried  Mistress  Wynne, 
"  and  you  shall  hear  it,  and  the  letters  too  ; "  and  with 
this  she  rang  a  hand-bell,  and  bade  Ca?sar  fetch  lights. 

I  looked  on,  distressed  and  curious. 

"  And  this,"  said  Darthea,  "  is  the  deed,  and  it  may 
give  you,  Hugh— give  us  the  lands?" 

"  But  /  do  not  want  it,"  cried  my  aunt,  gi-eatly 
excited.    "  It  is  to  be  Hugh's.    Yours,  my  dear  child." 

"If,"  said  Darthea,  speaking  slowly,  "the  elder 
brother  dies,  as  he  surely  will  before  long,  it  will  be 
—it  will  be  Arthur  Wynne  who,  on  his  father's  death, 
will  inherit  this  estate?" 

"  That  i.s  it,"  said  my  aunt.  "  But  he  shaU  never 
have  it.     It  is  ours.     It  is  Hugli's." 

My  dear  maid  turned  to  me.  "And  it  would  be 
ours, "  said  Daxthea,  "  if—" 


560      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  Yes,"  cried  Miss  "Wynne.     "  There  are  no  '  if  s.' " 

"Do  you  want  it,  Hugh— these  Welsh  lands ?'* 
asked  Darthea. 

I  thought  she  looked  anxiously  at  the  deed  in  her 
hand  as  she  stood.  "Not  I,  Dai'thea,  and  least  of 
all  now.    Not  I." 

"No,"  she  went  on;  "you  have  taken  the  man's 
love  from  him — I  think  he  did  love  me,  Hugh,  in  his 
way— you  could  not  take  his  estate  j  now  could  you, 
Hugh?" 

"No!  "said  I;  "no!" 

"  Darthea,  are  you  mad  ? "  said  Aunt  Wynne. 

"  I  will  not  have  it !  "  cried  Darthea.  "  I  say  I  wiU 
not  have  it,  and  it  concerns  me  most,  madam."  I 
had  never  before  seen  her  angry.  "  Do  you  love  me, 
Hugh  Wynne  ? "  she  cried.    "  Do  you  love  me,  sir  ?  '* 

"  Dai-thea ! " 

"  Will  you  always  love  me  ?  " 

"  Dear  chOd !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  What  is  it  ?  * 

"Give  me  that  deed,"  said  my  aunt.  "Are  you 
crazy  fools,  both  of  you  ? " 

"  Fools,  Mistress  Wynne  ? "  said  Darthea,  turning 
from  me,  the  deed  still  in  her  hand.  "  You  are  cruel 
and  unkind.  Could  I  marry  Hugh  Wynne  if  he  did 
this  thing  ?  Are  there  no  decencies  in  life,  madam, 
that  are  above  being  sold  for  money  and  name  ?  I 
should  never  marry  him  if  he  did  this  thing  —never ; 
and  I  mean  to  marry  him,  madam."  And  with  this 
she  unrolled  the  deed,  crumpled  it  up,  and  threw  it 
on  the  red  blaze  of  the  fire. 


H'.igh  WVnne:  Free  Quaker      561 

There  was  a  fla?h  of  flame  and  a  roar  in  the  chim- 
ney. It  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  oiu*  Welj^h  kinds 
were  so  much  smoke  and  eindei*s. 

Mv  aimt  made  a  wild  rush  to  rescue  them,  but 
struck  her  head  against  the  cliimney-shelf,  and  fell 
back  into  a  chair,  crying,  "  You  idiot !  you  fool !  You 
shall  never  marry  him !  " 

I  picked  up  the  slim  little  lady  in  ray  arms,  and 
kissed  her  over  and  over,  whilst,  as  she  struggled 
away,  I  whispered : 

"  Thank  God !  Dear,  brave  heart !  It  was  well 
done,  and  I  thank  you." 

My  aunt's  rage  knew  no  bounds,  and  I  may  not 
repeat  what  she  said  to  my  Darthea,  who  stood  open- 
eyed,  defiant,  and  flushed. 

I  begged  the  furious  old  lady  to  stop.  A  whirl- 
wind were  as  easily  checked.  At  last,  when  she  could 
say  no  more,  my  dear  maid  said  quietly  : 

"  \VTiat  I  liave  done,  Hugh  sliould  have  done  long 
since.  We  are  to  live  together,  I  trust,  madam,  for 
many  j'ears,  and  I  love  you  well ;  but  you  have  said 
things  to  me  not  ea.sy  to  forget.  I  beg  to  insist  that 
you  apologise.  For  lighter  things  men  kill  one  an- 
other.    I  await,  madam,  your  excuses." 

It  was  a  fine  sight  to  see  how  this  fiery  little  bit  of 
a  woman  faced  my  tall,  strong  aunt,  who  towered 
above  her,  her  large  face  red  with  wrath. 

"  Never !  "  she  cried,  "  I  have  been— it  is  I  who 
am  insulted  and  put  to  shame,  in  my  own  house,  by 
a  chit  of  a  miss." 


562      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

"  Then  good-by,"  said  Darthea,  and  was  by  me  and 
out  of  the  house  before  I  could  see  what  to  do  or 
know  what  to  say. 

"  She  is  gone  !  "  I  cried,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Gainor,  you 
have  broken  my  heart !  " 

"What  did  I  say,  Hugh?"  said  my  aunt.  I  do 
truly  think  she  did  not  know  what  she  had  said ;  and 
now  she  was  off  and  I  after  her,  knocking  over  Csesar 
and  our  belated  candies,  and  out  of  doors  after  Dar- 
thea. I  saw  her  join  her  a  few  yards  away,  and  did 
wisely  to  hold  back.  I  knew  well  the  child-heart  my 
aunt  carried  within  that  spacious  bosom. 

What  the  pah*  of  them  said  I  do  not  know.  In  a 
few  minutes  they  were  back  again,  both  in  tears,  the 
whole  wretched  business  at  an  end.  I  thought  it 
better  to  go  away  and  leave  them,  but  my  aunt  cried 
out: 

"  Wait,  sir !  I  am  an  old  ass !  If  either  of  you 
ever  mention  this  thing  again,  I— I  will  wring  your 
necks,  I  make  free  to  say  that  some  day  you  wiU 
both  regret  it ;  but  it  is  your  affaii'  and  not  mine.  0 
Lord  !  if  Cat  Ferguson  ever  comes  to  know  it — " 

"  She  never  wiU,"  said  Darthea ;  "  and  we  will  love 
you  and  love  j'^ou,  dear,  dear  mother,  and  I  am  sorr}' 
I  hurt  you ;  but  I  had  to— I  had  to.  If  I  was  wise, 
I  know  not ;  but  I  had  to  end  it— I  had  to." 

Never  before  had  I  heard  the  sweet  woman  call  my 
aunt  mother.  She  often  did  so  in  after-years.  It 
melted  the  old  spinster,  and  she  fell  to  kissing  her, 
sapng : 

"Yes,  I  am  your  mother,  child,  and  always  will 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      563 

be."  But  ever  after  I\Iistress  Wynne  was  a  trifle 
afraid  t)f  my  little  lady,  and  there  were  no  more  such 
scenes. 

When  my  aimt  wa*;  gone  away  to  bed,  tliougli  not 
to  sleep,  I  fear,  my  dear  maid  came  and  sat  at  my 
feet  on  a  cushion,  and  for  a  time  was  silent.  At  last, 
looking  up,  she  said,  "  Hugh,  was  I  wrong  to  biu'u 
it?" 

Then  I  was  silent  a  little  while,  but  from  the  first  I 
was  resolved  to  be  ever  outright  and  plain  with  my 
lady,  who  was  impulsive,  and  woidd  need  help  and 
counsel  and  goverament,  that  her  character  might 
grow,  as  it  did  in  after-years.  I  said  :  "  Yes,  Darthea. 
It  is  better  for  me  to  tell  you  the  simple  truth. 
It  would  have  made  no  difference  had  the  deed  been 
left  undestroyed ;  it  would  only  have  given  3'ou 
tlie  chance  to  know  me  better,  and  to  learn  that  110 
consideration  would  have  nuide  me  take  these  lands, 
even  had  our  title  been  clear.  Now  you  have  de- 
stroyed my  power  of  choice.  I  am  not  angry,  not 
even  vexed ;  but  another  time  trust  me,  dear.'' 

"I  .'^ee!  I  see-!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  have  I 
done?"  And  she  began  to  sob.  "I  was— was 
wicked  not  to  trust  you,  and  foolish  ;  and  now  I  see 
Aunt  Gainor  had  reason  to  be  angry.  But  you  are 
good  and  brave  to  tell  me.  I  coukl  not  have  said 
what  you  said ;  I  should  have  declared  vou  were  riirlit. 
And  now  I  know  it  was  weakness,  not  strength,  that 
made  me  do  it.  I  shall  pray  God  to  forgive  me.  Kiss 
me,  Hugh;  I  love  you  twice  as  much  as  ever  I  did 
]>efore." 


564      Hugh  Wynne  :  Free  Quaker 


When  I  had  done  her  sweet  biddino^,  I  said,  "Dar- 
thea,  let  us  forget  all  this.  Wrong  or  right,  I  at  least 
am  pleased  to  have  the  thing  at  rest  forever ;  and, 
wrong  or  right,  I  thank  you.  I  was  honest,  Darthea, 
when  I  said  so ;  and  now  good-night."  At  this  she 
looked  me  in  the  eyes  and  went  slowly  out  of  the 
room,  and,  I  fear,  had  no  better  slumbers  than  my 
Aimt  Gainor. 


XXXI 

ARLY  in  February  of  1783  we  were  mar- 
ried by  the  Rev.  William  White,  long 
after  to  be  our  good  bishop.  Christ 
Church  was  full  of  my  old  friends,  my 
Aunt  Guinor  in  the  front  pew  in  a  mag- 
nijaeent  costume,  and  Mrs.  Peniston  with  Jack,  very 
grave  of  fa<,'e,  beside  her.  As  no  De  Lanceys  were 
to  be  had  in  our  rebel  town,  Mr.  James  Wilson  gave 
away  the  precious  gift  of  Darthea  Peniston.  We 
went  in  mv  aunt's  chariot  to  i\Ierion ;  and  so  ends  the 
long  tale  of  my  adventures,  which  here,  in  the  same 
old  country  home,  I  have  found  it  pleasant  to  set 
down  for  those  who  will,  I  trust,  live  in  it  when  I 
am  dead. 

In  April,  1783,  peace  was  proclaimed.  In  Novem- 
ber of  that  year  I  heard  from  Colonel  Hamilton  that 
our  beloved  general  would,  on  December  4,  take  leave 
of  his  officers,  and  that  lie  was  kind  enough  to  desire 
that  all  of  his  old  staff  wlio  wished  should  be  present. 
I  was  most  ])1  eased  to  go. 

In  New  York,  at  Fraunce's  Tavern,  near  White- 
hall Ferry,  I  found  the  room  full  of  the  men  who 
had  humbled  the  pride  of  England  and  brought  our 

5^5 


566      Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker 

great  war  to  a  close.  His  Excellency  entered  at 
noon,  and  seeing  about  him  these  many  companions 
in  arms,  was  for  a  little  so  agitated  that  he  could 
not  speak.  Then  with  a  solemn  and  kindly  expres- 
sion of  face,  such  as  I  had  once  befpre  seen  him  wear, 
he  filled  a  glass  with  wine,  and,  seeming  to  steady 
himself,  said: 

"With  a  heart  full  of  love  and  gratitude,  I  take 
my  leave  of  you,  most  devoutly  wishing  that  your 
latter  days  may  be  as  prosperous  and  happy  as  your 
former  ones  have  been  glorious  and  honourable." 

So  saying,  he  drank  his  wine,  and  one  after  an- 
other went  by  him  shaking  his  hand.  No  word  was 
said,  and  these  worn  veterans  of  the  winter  camps 
and  the  summer  battle-fields  moved  out,  and  saw 
their  former  general  pass  down,  between  lines  of  in- 
fantry, to  the  shore.  There  he  got  into  a  barge.  As 
he  was  rowed  away  he  stood  up  and  lifted  his  hat. 
All  of  us  uncovered,  and  remained  thus  till  he  passed 
from  sight,  to  be  seen  no  more  by  many  of  those  who 
gazed  sadly  after  his  retreating  form. 

There  is  an  old  book  my  grandchildren  love  to 
hear  me  read  to  them.  It  is  the  "  Morte  d' Arthur," 
done  into  English  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory.  Often 
when  I  read  therein  of  how  Ai'thur  the  king  bade 
farewell  to  the  world  and  to  the  last  of  the  great 
company  of  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  this 
scene  at  Whitehall  slip  comes  back  to  me,  and  I  seem 
to  see  once  more  those  gallant  soldiers,  and  far  away 
the  tall  figure  of  surely  the  knightliest  gentleman 
our  days  have  known. 


Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker      567 

My  years  go  on  in  peace.  We  have  enough— far 
more  than  enough — for  jill  tlie  wants  and  even  for 
the  hixuries  of  life.  It  is  late  in  the  night,  an<l 
Christnuis-time,  in  the  great  stone  house  at  Merion. 
The  noise  of  little  ones— and  thev  are  manv— has 
ceased.  I  heai'  steps  and  laughter  in  the  hall.  The 
elder  ones  troop  in  to  say  good-night.  There  are 
Darthea  and  Gainor,  mothers  of  the  noisy  brigade 
now  in  bed,  and  here  is  Hugh,  the  youngest,  and 
Jack,  with  the  big  build  of  his  race.  And  soon  all 
are  gone,  and  the  house  quiet. 

I  looked  up  where,  under  my  dear  Jack  Warder's 
face,  which  Stuart  did  for  me,  hangs  Kn\q"»hausen's 
long  blade,  and  across  it  Jack's  sword.  Below,  my 
eye  lights  on  the  Hessian  pistols,  and  the  sword-knot 
the  gallant  mai*qnis  gave  me. 

I  watch  the  crumbling  fire  and  seem  to  see  once 
more  the  fierce  stiiiggle  in  the  market-place,  the 
wild  fight  on  the  redoubt,  and  my  cousin's  dark  face. 
The  years  have  gone  by,  and  for  me  and  mine  there 
is  peace  and  love,  and  naught  a  man  in  years  may 
not  think  upon  with  J03'. 

Suddenly  two  hands  from  l)ehind  are  over  my 
eyes ;  ah,  well  I  know  their  tender  touch  I  Says  a 
dear  voice  I  hope  to  hear  till  life  is  over- and  after 
that,  I  trust— "Wliat  are  you  thinking  of,  Hugh 
Wynne  ?  ** 

"  Of  how  sweet  you  have  made  my  life  to  me,  my 
darling.'' 

"  Thank  God ! » 

THE  END. 


mil  II  III  II II I II 1 1 II  Mil 

AA       000  282  242    / 

CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


SEP  17  1973 

SEP  1  3  RECq 

1 

1 

CI  39 

i 

UCSD  Libr. 

